Torment
by acina-m
Summary: "But wasn't this sacrifice all for me?" A smirk played at his lips as he gestured to the chaos around him. She looked around too, and screams pierced through her head; light and fire; life and death. She breathed out shakily. "That's what I thought too." The defiance in her eyes signified both his and her torment.
1. Chapter One

March 28, 2018 Chapter One: Provoking Offer {Torment} acina_is_amazing

If you'd ask Hermione Granger who Tom Marvolo Riddle was, ally or enemy, she wouldn't be able to answer you. You see, that enigma of a boy had always been a sort of rival to her. At times, he'd take things too far, but other times, he'd be so overly polite, and kind, she'd felt like she'd just choked on hundreds of chocolate frogs and had died of heart complications. Even the words kind and Tom Riddle would never fit in the same sentence! But overall, he was an outstanding student, but Hermione would never admit he was better than her. She was the brightest witch of her age after all, but her pride wasn't that big, because from what she could see, she could still perceive that she could not be at par with him when it came to manipulating people. He was the brightest wizard of the same age too.

It confused her greatly. She was drawn to his impassive, enigmatic nature. Who knows what kind of thoughts Riddle had going through his mind? Hermione had heeded his intelligence, and his skill to charm people; fool the heart with his words, play the mind with his actions. He could be a perfect villain, she told herself sometimes. But she couldn't say he was an entirely evil villain either.

What had drawn Hermione Granger to Tom Riddle was the fact that the boy himself was drawn to her. First of all, she was a Gryffindor, but at least, a Gryffindor with much more brains and competence in studies, than the average person from Gryffindor has (or Hogwarts, to be exact). Second of all, Riddle never talked to anyone else—unless he had to—if that could excuse the fact he was always surrounded by the most bigoted, arrogant, and prejudiced family heirs from the most corrupted Purebloods which stopped him from ever being interested in anyone else. And third of all, Granger was just Granger. Hermione wasn't really a stand out when it came to looks, or of status. She loved to prove herself to other people, but was not interested in capturing the eyes of the Slytherin Prince, even when Hermione Granger was the Gryffindor Princess.

Never to be swayed, never to be plucked.

All that Hermione Granger ever knew, was that when Tom Riddle had asked to sit with her during one of the Winter Holidays, wanting to talk to her for quite a bit—as he had stated himself for once in their past four years there—Hermione could never say no when his eyes were empty like a bottomless pit, and when his usual exuberance and charm that was always plastered onto his face was not there. She didn't even say yes before he went and sat across her.

She admired the way he sat, and his always perfect hair and those—were those reading glasses around his collar?—and the way he stayed as a mystery still, even when he was sat across her. That day, Harry and Ron had already went to the Burrow for Christmas, but a day before, Ron and Hermione had a row about "Hermione's bad habits of trying to seek Riddle's attention during class (which was his jealousy probably)" and always neglecting herself for studies—when it was only the simple rivalry of who can answer much more questions than the other between Riddle and her, though Riddle had darker intentions Hermione had been enamoured by.

Hermione had spluttered incredulously after Ron had told her in a pitying voice that didn't need to try her best for an evil, cunning bloke like that, and she had argued back that everything he had assumed was not right. To say the least, Harry couldn't even do anything to diffuse the tension.

So, Ron and Harry had left for the holidays as Hermione was still too angry to even care. She cooped herself up in the library and avoided everyone's attempt to try and talk to her, until Tom Riddle had sat across from her. Hermione could not dismiss the darkness around him, as Ron had said about Tom's cunning and evil manipulative mannerisms. But a deeper, darker part of Hermione thirsted to know of what Riddle was trying to cultivate all these years, maintaining the distance between everyone, holding leaps and bounds of abilities, far away from anyone in Hogwarts, though Hermione was fairly close. From what Hermione could see, he was trying to reach something far beyond him.

He made his grades, his abilities, his looks, and his words the poster to his fame. But behind that, Hermione had already known something was wrong. That something much darker lied behind his smile whenever they had small rivalries within the classrooms, he seemed challenged by her wit—but his eyes sparked with anger. Fury—as it always did.

He made others do his bidding, always sought to escape Dumbledore's clutches, and always separated himself from the masses when it came to skill, knowledge, experience, and maturity.

So, yes, maybe he could be a villain as Hermione had once agreed, but there was something about him. A fragile dark side that always left itself untouched. A broken piece of him. She was taken by the notion of his lack of understanding towards other people. Hermione was always compassionate, but she always seemed blinded by that part of her.

So, when Riddle had sat across from her in the library, everything was quiet. Questions ran through her head, but she dashed them away just as quickly when he looked up at her and stared at her with no shame, quirking up one brow. She stared back at him with equal interest too.

Tom spoke first. "You haven't gone back home for the holidays," he stated, watching as Hermione raised her brows in question, before putting down the book she had been reading.

"You haven't as well," Hermione followed, sitting up straight as she cocked her head back quite a bit. "Though, you don't seem to ever go home during the holidays. Why is that?" She remarked, then squinting her eyes at him as he scoffed, a small smirk playing at his lips. A buzz of energy zapped through the two of them, feeling it potent in the air as it danced across their finger tips and touched their lips in a furious manner. But a cold, calm chill sat in the air, sated—waiting. It wanted to be provoked.

"Oh, quite the curious one, are we?" Tom drawled, his long fingers interlocking with each other as he put his hands below his chin, leaning forward. A dangerous glimmer entered his eye and it caught Hermione at that moment with the sweet sound of his lull, coming from his lips. But his posture betrayed him—and so did the unyielding intuition of Hermione. "You see, I love to do much more important things over the holidays. Things that benefit me in the future. I love to learn and improve even at times that don't beg of it."

Hermione leaned forward as well, pondering over his words before he spoke once more. "I know you don't like wasting your precious time in these holidays waiting for nothing in particular. You'd rather be invested in more—challenging and articulate things." He looked at her—straight through her—as if he knew her, or knew just what she was like. She wanted to scoff him, but her curiosity took over her, though she wasn't very intent with falling into the mouse trap. She wasn't sure what he was talking about, but then Ron's naive voice entered through her head once more.

No, she inwardly shook her head, they couldn't stop her from making her own friends. She'd find out herself if Tom Riddle was evil or not. Unmask the man they were convinced was a villain.

Hermione looked at Tom Riddle inquisitively, feeling up the dangerous air around him—challenging and articulate. Yes, she could manage.

"You speak as if you know me quite well, Riddle," Hermione quipped, as if broaching him and prodding him forward. They both knew what she was doing, and he smiled a sickly sweet smile.

"Maybe I do want to know you quite well, Granger." The hair at Hermione's nape stood on end and she could feel goose flesh up and down her arms and legs. The air felt cold and constricting, yet it was rising to something stranger. Hermione was breathing in something that was an anomaly—a potent and intoxicating feeling. It might be content, power, or elation—her curiosity grew strong.

She breathed it all in.

"What is it that you want me for so eagerly?" The air around them both crackled dangerously, as if it was awakening the life of Hogwarts, from the dusty and creaky old castle to its once powerful, yet ancient aura, cocooning them in a bubble where their fates were sealed and both of their desires went spiralling, and the screams of their souls went unheard. All drowned out by the beating of their hearts, the vision that lingered in their minds.

"Join me," Tom prompted, his voice dropping down to a whisper that caressed her ear and sent a tingle down her spine. "Join me and you'll see." Something pushed Hermione, constricting her around her chest once more, yet freeing her of any other thought. Her conscience screamed at her and warned her of this man to no avail. She waited for a moment. Two moments. Three.

"Show me," Hermione spoke finally, and that was where the spiral of their hearts and minds began, their fates intertwined and sealed at this moment of history as the torment they would finally give each other began.

But both never regretted it.


	2. Chapter Two: Before Dinner

**Chapter Two**

" _ **Innocence is a chrysalis—a phase designed to end."—Eleanor Lamb, Bioshock 2**_

"So he invited you to our den, hm?" His silver eyes danced with mirth; a guard that held back his observance of her. His awfully pale skin stood a stark contrast against one of the dark alcoves of the library, making him look like a ghost that didn't hold transparency. There was a pleasant smile on his lips, but the fact it didn't reach his eyes as it should have made Hermione Granger already suspicious of him.

She figured he came out to goad upon her or slander her, knowing Tom Riddle might've already told the boy. She was always ready for that. Abraxas Malfoy didn't have to worry if he could hurt her or not. She didn't need to be slandered to be hurt anyway. She held a strong wall that could no longer be climbed unless she wanted someone to. Years of dealing with Harry and Ron made her learn that if she hid away her insecurities or didn't show her worry, she didn't have to fret over them attacking her insecurities when the time came they had a row. It made her realise the compassion she held for the both of them was far greater than that of their temper that at times, left her blaming herself until she couldn't eat or sleep.

Hermione tensed her shoulders, reflexively facing her enemy rather than turning her back—a lioness ready to pounce. Her face was fitted with a defensive scowl, her nose slightly pointed in the air as a sign of defence against Abraxas to not show her weakness. She raised a brow, clenching the book tightly like a reprieve, the pages of the hardback wrinkling. The letters jumbled beneath her thumb.

"Perhaps. You got a problem with that, Malfoy? Your leader _offered_ me quite a peculiar offer. Hope I don't get disappointed with what I'll be finding," Hermione gibed him. Internally, she smacked herself for worrying that Abraxas might taunt her, when _she_ was the one doing it to him.

Abraxas took out his wand for retribution, his lips curled into a sneer as he pressed the wand into the crook of her neck. With a hiss, he warned, "Better hold your tongue, _mudblood_. Talking about this so lightly can likely end up in your own demise. No person— _or mudblood_ —shall ever talk about him with no respect. You're nothing to him, nor us, you filth."

The cold tip of his wand moved slightly as she swallowed, a small coil of caution curling in her stomach. She watched Abraxas beneath her lashes, before pressing into the wand further, making Abraxas move a slight inch hesitantly. In her mind, Hermione seethed. No one should talk to her this way—and that word— _that word._ It seared into her like an iron rod. But she held her tongue, blood boiling with her gaze hardening on him until it was scathing. He had no right to treat her this way, because her blood wasn't pure. It was preposterous. _Primitive._

"Look here, _ferret_ ," she growled back, "I will not take your bull shit quite seriously when your _den of snakes_ are the ones who begin your tomfoolery with your prejudices and your antics of hurting people with your words. So, don't be surprised when _I_ am more than wary and put off by your offer, because I am quite done with your tricks, _offers_ not excluded. Either you're too blind to see it, or that your inbreeding has severely dumbed down your ability to fully process things, but I am _not_ ignorant of the fact that all of you want _something_ in exchange. That all of you have _something_ going on beneath your perfect pictures and reputations. Tell me, how can I respect someone who has tried nothing but hurt me and my friends, with his blood-prejudiced fools?"

Abraxas watched her, face slightly red, but Hermione gave no thought to what she had said. She was seething with fury and defence of her own actions, having always been attacked for a long time. But not now, when she was alone and vulnerable with a wand pressed to her neck. She was a Gryffindor, and she didn't want to back down to a lone snake.

Her magic radiated around them strongly, her fingers sparking and her hair becoming bushier, like static, as it rose like a breathing entity. The air was poignant with a breathing mass of magic that hovered over them like a blanket, all feeling warm and overwhelming, usually what Hermione always felt like with her magic. It overwhelmed the small, white-blond snake.

But Abraxas surprised her next when he did something he never did in front of her. Hermione watched him with bemusement as he pulled away his wand from her neck, the harsh look in his eyes gone as he chuckled lightly, shaking his head. He opened his eyes, and Hermione saw genuine amusement capture his irises, along with a slight calculating gleam shining and pointing at her.

"But was it fully blood prejudice that has pushed us to hurt you so badly, Granger? _Tell me_ ," he mocked her slightly with using her own words, the air bending and shifting to allow the confusion to permeate the air like a veil of smoke suffocating their breathers. "What do we get by hurting you and making you _watch us back?_ " He cocked his head to the side, smirk playing on his thin lips.

Hermione stared at him, her mind reeling. It didn't make sense. What was he talking about? _Didn't they want to hurt her just to see her suffer? Not make her notice them—watch them back as he said?_ Wait! 'Watch them back? _Watch them back?_

Hermione looked at Malfoy, her jaw slack as she mulled over his words. She had always assumed it was blood prejudice that made Pureblood children hate people like her. That it was something taught to the children who followed their parents blindly to the prejudice that had existed for a millennia. Hermione had never supposed that they had their own takes on blood prejudice— _she never supposed they had any at all_. It made her think they were incapable and weak to escape the notion— _nothing like people—_ because she supposed that they blindly surrendered themselves to the notion of blood purity.

But was there a drive, other than blood purity? Was there a rift caused by something else? What did they want?

Hermione closed her jaw shut when she heard Malfoy laugh. She dropped the book she had been gripping tightly on the table, abandoning the thought of wrinkled pages and the notion of blood prejudice. She focused on his earlier question. "I assumed you've always tried to hurt me because of the sodding blood prejudice. There was no other known, sensible reason on why you and Riddle, along with your merry band of pure-blood wanks had always taunted and watched my...every move. All of you always tried to stop me...gauge my reaction." Hermione contemplated the words that had escaped her mouth, and though she had noticed Malfoy was slightly perturbed by her off-handed comments on Riddle, and his friends—' _pureblood wanks'_ —she couldn't help but think of all of her encounters with them. It was as if they all purposefully tried to... _goad her into doing something._ Checking her reactions. _Assess her._

 _The fuck? Was that what this was about?_

Other people in school were sometimes picked over by Malfoy and the other prejudiced gits but she— _she was always the one they were after because she made her skills known._ She always butted heads with Riddle with no hesitation whatsoever because the Gryffindor within her would goad her into doing so. She didn't want to believe it, but all this time, they were pulling her leg?

Outrage so poignant and intoxicating seared through her brain. It left a bitter feeling in her tongue and seared the gears of her head into overdrive of such implications bestowed upon by Abraxas to her. _What utter tosh. Bloody fucking Morgana, what other than blood prejudice had made them try to hurt her? Riddle._

 _ **Motherfucking Riddle.**_

Opening her mouth in what would be a full blown retort and lecture and hysteria, Abraxas Malfoy held up his hand and his wand, raising his brows at her as if challenging her. He was pushing her to just try and shout, but Hermione bit her tongue. The audacity of the Pureblood prick. Oh, what she would do to fucking curse him to no end until his face was no more and he was simply a forgotten memory in time. Hermione glared at him outrage when he shook his head at her.

"I think you've just worked your head around the whole problem, Granger, judging by your reaction. Riddle makes us stronger. Cultivates us. And he sees potential that could lead him to power, and a man like him always knows where power lies. Others want a taste of glory—of freedom. I'm along with his views because I _know_ he can change history—for better or for worst, and I am already choosing a much more fortunate side. _You,_ Granger, had always excelled well beyond every other person in this school, except Tom. And Tom saw it fit that rather than facing off as enemies—that you both might be equals along with us. Though blood prejudice might be a bit outdated, yet still a very much alive prejudice among many, Riddle strives to _neutralise_ the house rivalry between Gryffindor and Slytherin with wanting to become an equal with you."

Hermione stared at Malfoy, gobsmacked. No one— _no one_ —had ever gave Hermione notice to her brilliance. She had always presumed that people didn't like her _know-it-all_ behaviour, as much as the next person did, and though it hurt her to sometimes admit to herself that it had made her a slight pariah to the masses, she had never had anyone call her attention to her efforts in school, not her fellow classmates of course. She had never heard anyone actually ever comment on her ambition and cleverness, and her wit and her perseverance. They had hated it, and here is one of the biggest bullies of her time, admitting to both her and himself that she was brilliant, and it should not be waste on simple prejudices and rivalry. She could unite it with someone like her.

And suddenly, Hermione's mind became free, as if it was opened to many thoughts and possibilities before. She had to admit, there were certainly very brilliant people—mostly Riddle, actually—in school. But possibilities were limited because everyone limited themselves to having a chance to have an academic discussion with her—or was it that she limited herself from others?— _it didn't matter._

 _But then it did._

Hermione had realised she had closed herself off from people and let herself be immersed in the world of learning—or vice versa, which made her interact with people far less than the normal average, excluding Ron and Harry. _A true swot,_ they would say. But in doing so, she wasn't living much, wasn't living up to her potential, and she wasn't creating a desirable future for herself. She wasn't creating a future that could benefit her, and there were _many_ limits that the world had put upon her.

And she had believed the world, and had ultimately, _limited herself._

Hermione hadn't realised until now that she couldn't exactly _improve_ herself by just learning by _herself_. She had to learn with others—because her own view was limited. And she didn't want to feel finite. She didn't want to feel alone. She didn't want to feel empty.

She wanted a new, vast world, beyond prejudices and privileges.

And Tom Riddle had allowed himself options of power and different paths in life by surrounding himself with the most fortunate and talented, and had ultimately, given himself many futures to choose from. Hermione wanted that. _Freedom._ Right now, she couldn't _feel_ freedom, because she only limited herself to just striving for the best.

But best at what? Getting grades and being annoying, and isolating herself from the whole world? Was that what being successful was? It wasn't, and she knew that.

And she looked at Malfoy, and she didn't want to see that arrogant git anymore. The spoiled brat. The snooty bastard. The fucking piece of shit who called her mudblood—because she wanted to be well past that. And she could see, he already was as well, judging by his gauging gaze set firmly on her face. And then she let out a small breath. He spoke before she could.

"Do you want a new future, Granger? One that is new, free of torment and prejudice—all that will be brought down by us from the ashes—ashes we will rise from?" Abraxas Malfoy smirked at her, wanting to connect to her first before all the others who she would see tonight. And beyond the facade of the arrogant Slytherin Malfoy was, Abraxas Malfoy was a boy who made a choice before everyone else could. One who would not risk himself for others, simply because he had to.

He saw others' weaknesses well before they could, and Hermione saw the man behind the boy. And Hermione cracked a smile, feeling a certain glee of freedom emanating from her as she supposed breaking her limits was breaking whatever prejudice that was holding her back. She had to be cautious about what she was getting into—but that was also one of her limits.

One she now broke with a smile. She chuckled slightly at the Malfoy, taking his hand in hers as her magic danced wildly around them, free, for once, from everything that had held her back.

"I didn't know you'd be the poetic type of man, Malfoy," she told him with a grin.

Abraxas Malfoy flashed back the famous Malfoy smirk at her, now, with no ire that lined his his eyes or his face. And Abraxas Malfoy felt the powerful magic of the muggleborn witch, dancing around his fingers, where he held her hand. It reminded Abraxas of Tom's rampant magic, but Hermione Granger's was far more free, and languid, and innocent, but powerful. Nearly like Tom's, and internally, Abraxas Malfoy patted Tom at the back. The man was smart, evil, snide, sly, yet clever in every way. The very epitome of Salazar Slytherin himself, condensed into one body.

Hermione Granger was definitely an ally they would like to have.

And Tom chose her first before he could let anyone else.

...0O0O0O0O0O0...

Hermione Granger, for the first time that day, walked into the Great Hall with a small smile on her face, though her eyes. They were another story—so free and wide, that her whiskey eyes looked as if they had been shown secrets of the world. Nothing in particular changed about her, but she held herself differently somehow.

Last night, it was different. She was closed off, always searching for something, always having her mind on other things, and always preoccupied with the Potter and Weasley. Well now—now, she wasn't. She looked _too_ free and languid, and he knew that she had been in a tizzy with the Weasley and Potter about a particular row she had with them—which, he of course, took advantage of to corner her into the library and coax her with his offer. She was a powerful witch, and seeing her wasting away her time, closing herself off to the world and only letting the Potter and Weasley make her look terrible was agonising to watch. She had so much potential, he couldn't let it slide.

Blood prejudice, or not, Gryffindor was she, or not. She had power, and that was what mattered to him. Tom Riddle watched, suspicious as Hermione Granger walked into the nearly empty Great Hall, accompanied by a smirking Abraxas Malfoy. Tom squinted at the boy, feeling a mixture of slight apprehension brew in his chest, next to the nearly beaming girl.

The Great Hall was modestly decorated for the Christmas Holidays this year, nothing too flashy nor too big. There was also only one long table in the hall so far, to accommodate all those who had stayed for the holidays, which was roughly around ten to twenty people, including the staff. Tom felt that the holidays was a perfect way to accommodate his knights to help them be acquainted more to the Dark Arts. Addition to that was Hermione Granger, who could have the chance to become one of his best subordinates. Tom sought after power, and though immortality was so far, something he couldn't get quite the grasp on, he was certain he wanted to live very long. He already had two horcruxes made, anyway.

"Miss Granger! You've finally emerged from your abode in the library!" Professor Albus Dumbledore greeted Hermione Granger with a merry tilt to his voice, and Tom had to stop himself from scowling at the disgustingly warm tone. Hermione Granger smiled at the old coot, a blush powdering her cheeks at his comment.

"Sorry, Professor. I hadn't noticed how much time passed," she said, before sitting down next to Abraxas, who sat next to Tom. So, Abraxas was in between him, and Granger, and Tom questioned slightly how Abraxas had managed to make the girl come out of her lion's den. She seemed more open to the Slytherins somehow, and a lone Gryffindor boy suspiciously looked at Hermione as she prattled off to Abraxas.

"Did you Imperius her, Malfoy? She looks a bit _too_ happy," Tom voiced his apprehension quietly to Malfoy, who shook his head, though an amused smile tickled at his lips. Tom found that if Abraxas _had_ Imperiused the girl, he would make it his sole mission to make the Malfoy heir's life a living hell for trying to sabotage his plans.

"No, Tom. I simply had a talk with her after you told us she'd be joining soon. I wanted to be well acquainted with her first, before anyone else so that she could have at least a comrade by her side to make her feel more comfortable. And strangely enough, something I said changed her." Abraxas Malfoy explained to Tom quietly to not let their subject beside them hear. Tom slightly approved of the boy's wily ways of manipulating the witch by becoming closer to her as a friend.

But Tom became rather curious with his last statement. Raising his brows, Tom asked the boy. "Oh? What has changed, then, Abraxas?"

"She has become more accepting of the thought of joining us. One mention of changing the world, and I had her," Abraxas enthused, and Tom nodded his head, accepting the silent victory on his side. So, smiling slowly, and quite darkly, he patted Abraxas on the back.

"Your achievement will be noted, and rewarded soon, Abraxas. It will make things easier for me," Tom told the Malfoy Heir and he watched as Abraxas smirked back, triumph reigning his features until he wiped it clean and talked to the witch next to him who called his attention.

Changing the world may be a far-fetched notion for others, but for Tom, he found it to be possibly quite a manageable feat. He had found the incompetence of many witches and wizards in their ministry, reigning over the Wizengamot with corrupt hands and money to bribe even the most formidable, Tom had become disgusted with the world he was introduced to. Though he was still quite fascinated with the Magic World, just knowing the Ministry had limited children from what they truly were for eleven years, making them suffer being the outcast for the rest of their childhood and by letting them believe no one out there was like them for their crucial parts in life was unacceptable. What difference would it make if the children's parents, or guardians, were simply told before hand? Yes, it can cause quite a stir, but they had magic to extract memories. To wipe away the truth. To swear people to secrecy. Why would they not try to take advantage of that, and innovate?

Tom knew that the children of their century would be lied to, and wouldn't be properly trained when time came for children to defend themselves. When things unexpected would occur to them, and the children were left so weak and uninformed solely for the reason of keeping them safe, that it put them in danger, why people are so enticed by things the olden do not tell them.

Magic had always been for survival since the beginning of time. Now, people abused it and thought so little of it. They took magic for granted. He wanted the world to know that someone like him—who had been abandoned, and not been loved, and was weakened by his circumstances—would rise to be the most powerful. That magic wasn't something they simply inherited. But something which could push the boundaries of even the simplest of things.

With Hermione Granger though, making others understand would be easy. She was a threshold of untouched power. She was very close to Albus Dumbledore, and she could be easily seen as a pillar of knowledge and truth, if people just simply dropped their uncouth vanity and low standards the worldly minded people held. If only they could see far beyond their bubble of ignorance and delightful selfish solitude.

With Hermione Granger, she could convince people like Albus Dumbledore because she was a kind girl. And her kindness and compassion, he would use as a weapon. When it came to broken things, Tom left them, finding no use or worth to them in the end. But he was an orphan, no longer cared for, unwilling to see the light of the world, and always filled with the empty void of loneliness and cold in his chest. Tom found his weaknesses like these disgusting, so he used them as tools to lure people into pitying him. Into doing things to him. Into using their guilt to make them trust him. And he learned by being the monster in a mask. And he learned by being the puppeteer, how the ugly world would pay attention to his charade as long as he fulfilled their desires. He came to know the weakness of the world, and for that, he would use it against them.

He would use Hermione Granger's weakness to care for others into falling within his trap. In the future, he would never thought it to be torment. But now, splendidly, it was mundane. Natural. Having her on his side tasted like a sweet, fulfilling victory, like stealing something from Albus Dumbledore.

Albus had been quite fond with the wtich, because she was smart, and sensible, and caring. _But she wasn't smart enough to know a trap. Wasn't sensible enough to avoid one. Didn't care much for herself to begin with._ And even if she was all this things, she'd just jumped into all of this out of her own volition, so Tom Riddle would not let that go to waste.

So he plastered on a smile that nearly bordered being genuine and greeted Hermione a good evening for once when dinner commenced. She greeted back the same sentiment, and Tom found it not entirely unpleasant to discuss with the witch magical theory and arithmancy and charms when Abraxas pulled both of them into the conversation. Tom has, of course, talked to the girl about the same topics before. But the meek, languid air around them made conversations much easier, and it felt refreshing to talk to another fellow intellectual who could follow his train of thought.

Then Abraxas, the buffer between them both, had mentioned Quidditch. Tom and the Gryffindor Princess looked exasperated. Tom took it upon himself to indulge others of his thoughts about Quidditch when his knights, and quite a few of the others in the table had taken interest in the beginning of their conversation, way before Tom and Hermione had argued about magical theory. This certain topic though, Tom and Hermione agreed on not liking.

"Quidditch is simply a waste of time. I hope I do not offend others with this, but I simply do not find any sort of use for the sport. It is simply barbaric and more people come out hurt than victorious over the sport," Hermione lectured, arms folded and shoulders squared, making Abraxas scowl. Tom smirked at the light blond, nodding his head reverently to Hermione, like a term of acceptance and agreement solely for her.

"I quite agree with Miss Granger there. Being able to ride on a cleaning tool imbued with magic and hitting and tossing off sentient balls and catching them in the air isn't nearly as fascinating as being able to fly with enough concentrated magic on your own without having to rely on a broom that needs to obey your will. Holding the power and will to make yourself intend to fly is more ambitious and useful than using a magical broom. Though training yourself to fly can take time, imagine your broom breaking. What else do you depend upon when you're thousands of meters above the ground, and you're not fast to enact your magic?" Tom explained, Hermione nodding along, and a few others like Malfoy scowling quite uneasily at his correct assumption.

Tom heard Hermione chuckle, before he heard Abraxas do them both in at the same time. The blond scoffed, "Just because both of you can't ride brooms properly, doesn't mean flying on a broom is insufficient and not safe. It doesn't mean you have to oust Quidditch as a whole, useless sport." The Malfoy grumbled like a small child, who had been scolded and admonished. Tom scowled along with Hermione at Abraxas' comment on their poor flying skills. Hermione began grumbling.

"Don't worry your pretty blond head then, if it gets bashed in by a bludger," she said underneath her breath with a hiss, and Abraxas gave her a glare as Tom only let a small amused smirk lighten his features.

Tom thought that Hermione Granger would be a great addition to his knights. And maybe, in the future, as his equal.

 _If_ it would get to that.

...0O0O0O0O0O0...

 **Okay, so when I first began this book, I had been hesitant because I was very VERY terrible with interpreting Tom and Hermione's characters—though, Tom has proven to me that he was harder to interpret. Though it goes without saying that you won't ever know unless you try, and then I forced myself to read several Tomione fanfics the past month. I strive to have people read this, and hopefully critique me and give me some advice to help strengthen the way I characterise these certain people in the book.**

 **So, I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter. I was very happy to have actually written this, because I forced myself to write because I was under another spell called "Writer's block". So, hope you guys stay tuned, and I appreciate all the people who have read this so far!**

 **Have a nice day!**


	3. Chapter Three: After Dinner

**Chapter Three**

" _ **It is fatal to enter any war without the will to win it."  
—General Douglas Macarthur**_

Next to them, she stood like a small cat, her magic lurking around her like a radiance. His knights made her look small— _weak_ —as though she was but a mere sapling amongst a forest of trees with planted roots. But she was strong, he knew that, hidden in that peculiar, small body of her's that could grow claws. She was small, but she was strong, yet he could see it in her eyes.

She was lost. She was not yet fully committed to the Dark Arts, blinded by the perception of what was good and bad—both highly ideological and subjective. He mused himself about how he could go about changing that—how he could turn her head to the Dark Arts, to their cause, and to him and _him_ only. She was strong—Hermione Granger had potential, and he wanted to push that and not let it go to waste. But her innocence made her untouchable, and she was very oddly pure and righteous, that Tom felt amused about how such a good girl was tricked solely by her own world which she thought was good. _It truly wasn't_.

And now, here she was, standing in a forest of green, tainted by darkness, and he would let her grow here. With him and all of the rest. Tom was willing to push her power, make her feel accepted for her intelligence and grow her knowledge so that she could follow him, and be compelled by the darkness. And Tom knew how compelled she was by mysteries, and he would use that. But that _kindess_ she radiated—the _warmth_ and the _light_. He needed to quell that down, because it made her seem so _corruptible_. She was so pure, it was nauseatingly endearing. But to survive, he had to make her erase that.

"We are a devout group, Granger," he told her with a bout of authority, searching her eyes and her body language for any sort of weakness. She met his eyes head on, and there was steel there that encompassed her whole body. If she had any weakness right now, she wasn't showing it, and to say the least, Tom was intrigued, and she if she was intrigued too, she didn't show it either.

"We want to change the world we live in from the old foundation that has limited us from reaching our full potential, to a new era of innovation and change. But of course, we don't have that power in our grasp. We don't have that strength taught or given to us. That's why—we have invited you here to join us in becoming stronger, both in knowledge and in power. We need the strength to correct the world from its weak foundation. And in order to do that, we need to strengthen ourselves as a whole. Erase the line between light and dark—the limitations that has kept us from reaching beyond. We will immerse ourselves in a world long forgotten. Are you willing to join us in this cause, Granger?"

Hermione Granger looked torn, though her hesitation made it known that she was compelled to join. Her eyes were filled with raging emotions, clashing as she fidgited, the magic around her permeating the air. Tom hadn't felt this unbidden power before—loose, and wanton, floating in the air languidly. _She is strong; she is power._ She had so much power she didn't have control of, and people would fight hard for it. He _had_ to have her, otherwise other predators would come and hunt after her.

Her magic carressed every inch of the Room of Requirement, making his other knights (Avery, Lestrange, Malfoy, Mulciber, Crabbe, Goyle, Dolohov, and Nott) squirm with unease and fear. Hermione's radiating magic reminded them of Tom's, and Tom smirked at the thought of his own magic. But his was far more intense than Hermione's, like a sharp fog that choked the senses, more hostile and in control. Tom wanted Hermione to learn how to shape her loose magic.

Tom knew magic like his was only possible of permeating the air and turning tangible because of tapping into his magical core. Rarely, he ever felt these things from others, but it was far stronger with Hermione Granger. Tom wanted to know how, though most of the times, it was only explainable through something that has probably happened back in her childhood. But he wanted the power and knowledge she posed, over the years, always pushing her to snap and attack, and she had proven herself with her mental ability, though she refused to hurt others with her magic. Only feeling her magic alone fuelled his determination to add her to his ranks.

Back to the present, Tom rose his eyebrows as she made a small sound, folding her arms in front of her chest, the dim light of the room making her look like a pretty mystery. Her curls were one of the aspects of her where the magic loved to play, making her bushy hair breathe sometimes with life whenever she expressed her emotions. She looked up at Tom through her long lashes, and Tom patiently waited for her answer.

She paused, before assenting. "Yes, I'd love to join all of you," she said, though she was intimidated with the presences in the room. Tom smirked with pride and triumph, succumbing to the feeling of silent vitory. But he halted as she raised her head to look up at him, meters away from where she was with the other knights. He stood infront of the fire that lit the room, refusing to fall in line with where they were, to show his inequality; superiority. He stared back at her as she scrunched her brows.

"But I have questions," she stated, and her eyes sparked with somewhat a blatant curiosity that lit her features, like it always did whenever she was in class. But Tom never valued vanity in the world but his own, and he nodded his head.

"But of course," he answered her. Hermione continued.

"You mentioned earlier that you— _we_ will erase the line between dark and light," the witch corrected herself. "That we will immerse ourselves in the arts of both. But isn't the Dark Arts banned? Won't we get caught? We might get hurt, or what not, and Dumbledore might get word..." She voiced out her worries, and a few of his knights snickered at her. She shot them a glare filled with ire. They shut up.

Tom smirked at her with amusement, his face haughty even in the darkness. He did not point out, though, that Hermione didn't mention about how she was not opposed to the thought of immersing into the Dark Arts. She didn't object to the idea. Tom found it strange, and the tickle of intrigue and acceptance lingered on his mind. Silence always served as a louder answer.

"No one here in our society will ever betray me. They all keep their word and are sworn to secrecy. Everyone here calls me 'My Lord', and the address itself poses their allegiance that only lies with me. I tolerate no insubordination, and any other insurrections presented or acted will seek retribution solely from my hand." Tom told Hermione at first, shoudlers rigid and his magic slicing through the air, meeting Hermione's magic with deliberate strength and bulk; _wide spread and intense_. Tom walked to Hermione slowly, steps calculated and purposeful—the sways of a beast meant to ensnare.

His magic swallowed her being as he came closer, makig her flinch slightly, but he saw her stare at him wide-eyed and intrigued as his magic pressed on her. There were questions, but there was also astonishment upon which he was pleased to see. A few meters seprated them, enough to breathe and reach out— _enough to state who was in power._

"But, Granger, the idea of the Dark Arts—per say—being banned because it is _evil_ is purely subjective," he admonished her, a disdain for the ban of the Dark Arts showing through his tone, though his face remained impassive. "The Minsitry only puts labels on certain magic to control people. _To weaken them_. They do not want anyone becoming stronger, hence wands and laws that stop us from venturing what any normal person would, because they don't want _anyone_ turning far more stronger. Someone who can change the times. Someone who can change the people. Magic is purely integral, and the Dark Arts are only practices people _think_ can cause them danger, when in fact, it is _people_ who are the danger. Those who fully intend to hurt others."

Tom's stocky figure loomed over her, even though the distance between them was still present. But the shadows danced, and their magic mingled, and the _air_ —it was hard to breathe with a tension so strong created by the clash of their strengths. Tom watched her closely for her reaction. He knew she was quick to anger and to doubt. So he found it no surprise when she tilted her head, narrowing her eyes on him, though she was cautious enough to be in control of her actions not to lash out, though he knew some part of her acknowledged what he said and had fully accepted it.

"But how can you _prove_ the Dark Arts is not dangerous? They're arts that have been used centuries before us that has caused great harm. The curses that were created—the _enchantments, rituals, and spells_. They all are corrupted, filled with darkness that can surely endager us." She looked up at him expectantly, unsure but still strong.

Tom met her eyes evenly, though he was a bit annoyed by her ignorance.

"Centuries before us, witches and wizards were being hunted. _We_ needed to learn how to protect ourselves and hide, and the modern, easier spells that have been taught to us here had not been made yet to help comfort them before." Tom told her, and she listened, enraptured by his words as his other knights kept to themselves, not wanting to become part of the conversation. But it was fascinating to watch Tom Riddle ensare one of the strongest minds in their year; one of the _fiercest._ They became proud with their Lord.

"They needed to survive, and the intent of which the witch or wizard had made the spells were purely for their own sake or reason. It was not evil, it was _necessary_. For survival." Tom gesticulated his hands in the air momentarily, turning to face Hermione and looking intently into her whiskey eyes. He stared at them and saw a brilliant mind, slowly unravelling from their confines. He continued, encouraged with strength.

"And the Light Arts are the same. In this age, we haven't fully engaged our magical cores, or unlocked the pure essence of our magic because it is being detained here. But the Light Arts are only simple spells, right?" He asked her rhetorically, then shook his head, dry humour lacing his tone.

"No. The Light Arts are just as dangerous. Take a simple spell they've taught is before—the _blasting curse_. You can control the amount of magic you release, but once you use it powerfully— _intentionally_ —it could potentially be dark because you have the chance to hurt a person with a simple spell. It was widely taught to us, after all, in duelling. So, listen to me when I say the Dark Arts being banned and harmful is purely subjective, because magic is _magic._ It is what we are, and we deserve to know what we can. Do you have any more questions?"

Hermione didn't speak for a moment, though her mind, as righteous and infuriating as it was, looked made up. The air around her shifted, as though a piece came to place, and in her eyes a gleam of uncertainty still lingered that Tom had to crush. A conviction was injected into his tone, heated yet controlled. He told her, "Don't let the rules bind you. Do not let them dictate what you should be capable of. Do you not want a change for once? To find a path?"

She looked up at him, eyes wide and alarmed.

And he remembered how she looked before he began to speak. A small kitten with claws.

Weak but strong.

 _Yet she was lost._

 _But he got her._

Tom smirked, and Hermione, as if regaining her footing, blinked, her lashes fanning her cheeks and her bushy hair becoming bushier with magic. Though she still held herself as if she was ready to defend, with her stance rigid and her emotions guarded, she let a slight feeling of joy escape her eyes. She was easy to read.

She answered him in a feeble tone, detached from her body, as if it was not her mind that spoke. A much more, raw and deep feeling came out, and it sounded as if she voiced something she hadn't said in a long time.

" _I don't want to be lost anymore._ "

Her words held power.

Tom found them to be an enchantment, as though something warm spread throughout the whole room, enveloping them in a fuzzy feeling of happiness. Tom was bewiledered with the emotion, though he knew he accomplished gaining Hermione Granger. Amongst his knights, she found acceptance strumming through her being, and though his knights were slightly apprehensive they welcomed her and the power she radiated. They clapped their hands reverntly, smirking at her as though she was a prize they won.

 _No,_ Tom _won her. Not them._

"Don't worry, mud— _Granger_ ," Avery spoke first. Tom sent him a sharp look, which made the boy blanch, but he quickly fixed it. Hermione ignored his slip up. "You won't be lost here with us. There won't be any rule breaking. The school won't know of this, and there won't be any tricks pulled on you."

Abraxas chimed in. " _Not anymore_. This calls a need to celebrate! My Lord—shall we?" Abraxas sought permission, and Tom grinned at the power he held, still so satisfactory and strong. He nodded at the boy, head held high and seeing glimpses of his plans sitrring back into motion in his head. But he had to at least enjoy his accomplishments once. He needed a chance to cool off from his tension and relent himself a time to relax.

"Go ahead—but nothing that will disturb others beyond these walls. And no heavy intoxication," Tom ordered them, casting a look at Dolohov who always drank himself until he was in a stupor.

"Intoxication?" Hermione squeaked. "Aren't we supposed to do something? Like discuss plans—or learn magic? Essence? Study on—"

"Granger—Granger!" Avery broke her rambling. "We are welcoming you to the Knights of Walpurgis. Woman, you work as much as Tom does, and he does that all the time." Avery told her, and if Tom were not in a slightly cheery mood, Tom would've punished him for his loose tongue. Avery looked at Tom, and Tom narrowed his eyes slightly, but let it slide. Avery grinned at the others. "Besides, it's Christmas holidays. Presents won't start rolling yet until a few days later, and we should take time to know our new member."

Tom tuned them out as he grew bored of their excitement. Honestly, his Knights may be big and strong, but when it came to power in the form of a demure woman, their senses and nerves were striked out. He had to had a _firm talking_ to them about letting them accept Hermione fully, knowing that their blood prejudice lingered, but to change the world, they had to change that, _only_ for her. Not anyone else. She was a precious member to have.

But right now, research and books were his type of celebration and reprieve of relaxation. As the others went off to collect midnight snacks and Firewhiskey under Dillisionment charms to the kitchen, Tom sat in his favourite cushioned seat near the fire. And next to the fire was shelves of books, all versing from certain topics such as Secrets of the Dark Arts, to Essence of the Magical Core by Titus Tyranny.

Tom wanted to dicuss with Hermione about her strengths and weaknesses, particularly wanting to needle on her weaknesses (Potter and Weasley), but she instead came to him. Tom didn't have to look up to know she was perusing the shelves first, before approaching him slowly, as if he was a monster that shouldn't be bothered.

Tom mused himself.

He probably was.

"Since I am now a part of the Knights, I do believe I should call you My Lord," she told him at first. It was like this sometimes when both talked to each other. Small talk was only pleasantry to bigger discussions. Each always held a front when they talked to each other, and Tom wasn't surprised to see a sort of shield in her eyes, though she seemed slightly amused.

Tom replied, "Yes, I do also believe it is quite fitting." His reply was short.

Hermione carried on. "I wan to discuss upon your plans... _My Lord_." She said it quite hesitantly. Tom felt overjoyed at her pained look. She looked as if she had a blow to her pride.

"Which plans, Granger?" He asked her, eyes narrowed, guaging her.

"The plans which include me, and your way of achieving much greater power."

She met his eyes sharply, and Tom felt quite bare at the transparency of the darkness within them. Hermione Granger had always had a knack for puzzles, and right now, she looked at Tom as if he was no different than one.

 _He would use that to lure her in._

Tom stood up, inclining his head to the shelf she had perused earlier, and they began their discussion that shared their welcomed intellect.

Tom handed her books that were sure to open her mind to darkness. And as they discussed, he began to see how brilliant of a mind she was. How free yet blinded; how untamable yet brazen she was. He would not accept that. He would control her.

And it was torment to see each other morph in front of their eyes in times to come. But he would make her acquainted to torment first.

...0O0O0O0O0O0...

It was no wonder now why boys and girls alike talked about him. His midnight hair that held the slight sheen of indigo always fell in perfect, slicked waves, though in the end, they always had curls that looks as if someone had ran their fingers through them lovingly. His pallour was alabaster, like the pale milky white of a pearl, redenned only by the nipping cold quite bashfully, that it would exaggerate his features more boyishly, it was endearing.

The fine, natural contours of his face showed high elegant cheekbones, and his brows were perched handsomely on top of eyes that were the deepest shade of green, it was nearly black. His nose looked like it had been carved only by a greek god, and his full lips were the shade of roses in full bloom; lustruous and seductive. His chin was rounded, curving off sharply into straight, angular jaws that brought attention to his graceful, dark, and regal beauty.

He looked beautiful, but his whole countenance held the dark secrets of his facade. He was beauty, and he was dark. _Meant to be untouched._ His shoulders were broad, enticing to the eyes that it often tempted their beholder to grip them in a more than platonic way. His torso was long, and though he was quite wiry, he was not completely gangling, having hint of muscles here and there. His legs were even longer, often seen to saunter and strut unintentionally though his steps were systematic and calculated, like a slithering snake in its dance.

People talked about how he looked. And then, there was his intellect and his notions that brought people in a tizzy with his deep, masculine voice that knotted guts. It enticed people—the commanding tone that his voice held, the softness and just the perfect roughness that melted the ears. His hand gestures brought his thoughts to life, and his searing gaze made you fall into his words easily.

But his thoughts always garnered your attention, and the way he said things charmed people into supplication. There was no escape from his tantalising words and gaze. Hermione found herself in that, but not in a good way. Even after joining them, she was still cautious. So far, the Slytherins had been nice, and they've accepted her into them. Though she was not yet quite well versed within their manipulative ways—nevertheless, their normal, yet often hushed, wily discussions—it sucked Hermione in right off the tip of Merlin's nose. Tom Riddle had gathered boys well with power and enough mysteries to call themselves dark, but Tom was the biggest mystery himself most of all.

Hermione wanted to know more of what his ideas were. What his thoughts were like. Harry and Ron's voice always nagged her at the top of her head—" _why does he intrigue you so?_ "—and she wanted to unmask the man. The man who talked teachers into sappy little messes. The man who manipulated people to his will. The man who executed spells just as quickly as she did. The man who wanted to change the world with _her_ help. She had wanted to know the man, and she had wanted to know the power he possessed.

Hermione didn't want to feel like she was missing in her place in the world anymore. She _wanted_ a role to play; a future she could alter to her own crescendo. She wanted to be somewhere in life, and she still didn't now where she could stand, but it was getting there. Tom Riddle made her feel like she had a part to play, and it was perfect the way it was. He filled her with intellectual fulfilment, but he was scary. The way he turned down parts of the conversation he wanted to avoid seamlessly irked her, and the way he seemed to make her whole being bare in front of him with a mere blink of his eyelash scared her out of her wits. Like he knew her deepest fears and desires.

Like he knew about her weaknesses, and that's what she was afraid of.

She was intrigued by him, because despite the darkness that she could see, he gave her knowledge, and knowledge was power. For once, seing the change of point of view in the world made her realise what kind of life she had been living.

Her childhood had been tarnished and left with such an infinite desertion of friends and conncections. She didn't know what she was back then, always filling the air with a tangible feeling, always scaring other children away, even hurting them. _Hurting herself_. Her parents accepted her of course, but sometimes, it got too scary when she would fill the house with such a permeating feeling of sadness, it made things _wrong._

She had tried to control her magic endlessly, staying up hours to try and keep in her stength, but failing. She tried expressing her magic as well, and it was out of control because she didn't _want_ to feel her magic, because it made her feel unwated when the kids would make fun of her, knowledge and literature was her only reprieve. And then, years later when she was eleven, she had been thrusted into a world where she could be accepted _finally,_ only to be rejected by others because she knew _too much._

She had known so little, and she had been rejected. So, when she had been given the chance, she took her time wisely to learn everything about what she was and the world she lived in, that she aliented herself. That she alienated the world. But here was Tom Riddle, who also knew too much, and yet, people _still_ accepted him.

They worshipped him, and they did not find her presence as equally as pleasant as his.

Because she nagged people, and scolded them when not trying their best, or breaking the rules. And she didn't know. She felt lost. She felt lost in her own insecurities that she buried herself beneath pages of ogranised texts inside of her mind, filled to the brim with knowledge that bolstered her defenses.

But it was strange to feel welcomed within the confines of the Room of Requirement, discussing meeting schedules and magical theories with Tom Riddle who had accepted her for herself. And it was scary. The boy who everyone liked was talking to her, and no one could see him beneath that mask of his, behind his notions and his facial features, and his magic, and— _what?_

 _What was he?_

She didn't know, and that was what she was scared of.

"You haven't tapped into your magical core yet. That's why you can't control the way your magic escapes your body and permeates the air. But you have to feel it. Let your magic control you," he told her, looking lik he had been doing this for so long, which he probably did.

Hermione gave him a blank look, and with that, it perturbed Tom Riddle.

"You haven't fully accepted your magic yet? Surely, as a child, you tried to control it. It prevents less accidental magic."

Hermione shook her head, eyes looking away as she pressed her lips together. She held the mug of butterbeer that Abraxas had given her earlier away from her body, like a source of hurt. She held it inches away from her body and stared at it, seeing the shiny foam atop that was lit by the dim light. "I _tried_ to control it, but I had not accepted it." She didn't expound much, but Tom caught on.

"Why had you not accepted a part of you that belongs to you? That is simply foolish, and a waste of magic if you keep rejecting it from fully becoming one with your mind and soul," he told her with a bite of a scolding, scowling at her disdainfully. She growled beneath her breath slightly.

"I didn't _want_ to accept it because I hurt people with it. Because it made me different, and even if I did, look at where my extensive knowledge has brought me, even without my magic. People don't like me, all except for Harry and Ron," she replied to him, bitterness creeping into her words. She didn't look to see Tom's face, but she could see his glare that bit at the side of her face.

"When did other people's feelings matter, Granger? They rarely ever do, and your magic and your brain is your's, not their's. So prove it is your's. Make yourself who you are—that's how people accept you. That's how they accepted _me_ , you daft girl."

The insult did not go unnoticed.

"I am _not_ daft," she said indignantly.

Tom scoffed, "Could have fooled me."

Hermione grumbled beneath her breath, shifting in her seat to let leverage creep into her numbing behind with the weight of the books Tom had given her earlier shifting in her lap. She looked to Tom who had been staring at her. She met his dark eyes, and she saw herself there. A prey in front of a predator. Hermione spoke first.

"Will you be teaching me how to control my magic, then?"

"But, of course," he acquiesced. "You have to read all those books, and get yourself well acquainted with your magic. With holidays upon us, it'll be easier to strengthen your hold on your magic. I will expect nothing less from you, as our new member. You have to prove yourself." The added weight of expectation burdened her shoulders, but Hermione didn't mind the challenge.

"I see. Thank you for the discussion..." Hermione began, wanting to say her least pleasantry for departure, but at Tom's inquisitive, and hard expectant look, Hermione scowled slightly, her face turning red. "... _My Lord."_ She hissed the last words.

Tom grinned widely, almost maniacally, and nodded his head in approval. " _See_ , it wasn't _that_ hard to address me. But I expect you to be faster on your uptake on addressing me, Granger. I always had the belief you were faster than _that_." He mocked her, and was still mocking her with that grin of his. Hermione grumbled underneath her breath. But then, when Tom continued in a stark contrast of his tone, now filled with _harsh_ , _cold_ brutality and fury, Hermion froze.

"But don't make any mistake, Granger. I don't tolerate _any_ mistakes or insubordination, nevertheless, even addressing me is mandatory. Failure to keep it constant shall see retribution fit. We take things far seriously than how you should know it, Granger. I am not lenient. Do you understand me?" he told her with a warning in his tone, his magic radiating off of him in waves and choking her.

Hermione swallowed the lump in her throat. "Yes... _My Lord_."

He was scary, and she had known that, but she reminded herself. He was a dangerous man with a dark past, and what could be an even darker future, and Hermione was in for the ride. She'd try her best to play the role he had given her, and she would not fail.

Not that she'd fail to do anything he wanted her to do.

She was a lion in the snake's den.

The warmth that pulled the snakes into her.

He smiled at her approvingly, and she felt like the devil had just given her a free pass to escape hell.

 _If she could._

Abraxas and the others had drank themselves drunk.

...0O0O0O0O0O0...

 **I had a fun time writing this chapter. Especially with describing Tom, and stating his thoughts blatantly, as well as Hermione's. I feel like with Tom Riddle, you have to always calculate your actions and be on guard all the time. That's how Hermione should be. And whenever you're in a cOnversation with him, he'd have crazy mood swings if you said something wrong.**

 **But his indifference and his way to ensnare the mind fascinates me. Tune in for chapter 4.**

 **Thanks for reading and drop a review!**


	4. Chapter Four: Beginning

**Just a small A/N:**

 _ **orangemavis asked: like it so far, but what time era are we in and what school year?**_

 **I'm glad you liked it so far, and oh man, I actually forgot inform you guys of the time era and school year! Sorry! So, this whole story is AU-ish, with a lot of changes and stuff.**

 **So, we are in** _ **1943, in 6th year**_ **. At this time, Grindelwald is their looming threat, and Hermione and her friends and Tom along with his lackeys coexist, but Hermione is a bit more open and prone to the dark arts (and there is the fact I still struggle with interpreting their characters). But there is still a long way to go with this story, and at the moment, I'm trying my best to make it better. But everything else is pretty self explanatory with Tom's era and Hermione's merging, but Harry Potter** _ **doesn't**_ **have a scar and still has his family, and everything else, you will see in the story.**

 **I hope this explains stuff for a bit, guys.**

 **And I also made a small mistake in Chapter Two, where I addressed Dumbledore as _Headmaster_ , and then Hermione replied to him back with a " _Professor_." Albus is the Transfigurations Professor in this era, as you know, so he is not headmaster. I'm sorry for the mistake guys, and I've already fixed that. So I hope it clears up.**

 **And thanks for those who've read this! Now, on to the story.**

 **...0O0O0O0O0O0...**

 **Chapter Four**

" _ **Let your plans be dark and impenetrable as night, and when you move,  
fall like a thunderbolt."**_ **  
** _ **—Sun Tzu**_

He knew now why they talked about her that way; why they avoided her mere presence altogether. Though her curls were expressed to be quite a homely feature, he thought them quite telling and magnificent of who she was. Her dark, coffee curls that bounced on her head like static framed her face, like a cushion, tempting you to run your fingers and untangle the curls from their confines. It was so bushy, it looked like it could swallow you whole.

Her skin was fair, always powdered with the redness of her cheeks and nose, lifted into a flattering light by her high cheek bones, gifted with a bit more plump flesh because of her feminine youth that danced through her face. Her nose was dusted with copper freckles, also found beneath her long lashes that framed dark, whiskey brown eyes that once in awhile, presented embers of firewood and glowing ash.

Her lips were not as full, but the petal softness of the texture it had, and the dusky pink it glowed sat on her face in a nearly sensual way. Her chin was rounded, and her jaws in elegant arcs spoke of the elegant beauty she could become if she put more effort into her looks. But her youth shined across her face, giving her the look of innocence.

She had the light, shy meekness of beauty that tempted you to just smother it. The kind where the darkest of beauties could not touch, in fear of marring it and hurting it. She was untouchable, but she hid it behind her soft words, her cutting remarks, and her jabs of sharp quips and matter-of-fact comments. She hid it behind books, behind parchment and ink; behind glowing spells and large clothes.

She didn't believe in her beauty, and overrode it with her intelligence, filling her head with so much work and study, she matured herself for the world to be ready. _But they weren't_. He mere presence was overwhelming because of her warmth— _the fire she lit_. She drove others away because of her sharpness, disregarded as nagging and being meddlesome. But they couldn't see the brilliant mind, too caught up by vanity, because she had dark circles beneath her eyes that spoke of late reading into the night. She busied herself so much with her future, she didn't seem to care what kind of past she was leaving tarnished.

Tom Riddle now knew why Hermione Granger was such lone figure.

It was because she was too powerful. She was an overwhelming entity that came on too warm to people, she burned them. She was so innocent, so hard working, so helpful, yet so strong, so righteous, and _too_ kind that whenever she looked at you, you felt bare. You felt like you were spread out to be dismantled and examined. She looked like she could count all your sins, and made you feel afraid.

She spoke of truths and facts that overwhelmed a person to the brink of annoyance. But Tom understood her. Hermione only had lack of control of her thoughts and her tongue. Her bloody Gryffindor pride and bravery smothered her, and her magic felt like the cover of a blanket, too warm to stay underneath.

He would help her control that, and make her stronger than she could ever be. But not stronger than him, of course. She was only a weapon named to himself. He would help her grasp power beyond magic and politics. They would change the future with what they could be.

But he couldn't do that when she was holed herself up in her Gryffindor Common Room, doing Merlin knows what in the fast approaching afternoon. Snow had long covered the grounds, leaving Hogwarts in a white wonderland, void of disturbances and filled with peaceful change. It was serene and gave Tom time to process his thoughts and plans with the company of the changing season.

He had left his Knights to their devices; sending letters back home or receiving early gifts from their families. Tom had all the free time in the world without family. He was free of them, unsullied by their unwanted demand of emotion, warmth, and attention. He had time to achieve his goals without any distraction, and was not disturbed to say the least.

He was up in the Astronomy tower now, contemplating many things in the presence of silence and solitude. He loved silence and solitude, particularly in his own presence. But sometimes, it left so much to be asked for. The silence never said anything. Other people's silence left answers, _yes,_ but somehow, with himself, it didn't. All his life, silence always meant the end of something. It left him in the dark, questioning, and questioning, and _questioning_ , falling down into the brink of his sanity, toying with his own fraying ends, until it all became too much. He'd shut himself out, and his own humanity that had forced him to question his own actions. He left it out of himself until there was no turning back.

There were many things in his life that had shaped him into himself now. Somewhere, deep down, a part of himself knew that he wanted to change that. He wanted to change himself— _but for the better or for worst?_

He smothered the feeling of being lost, beating it down with his memories of his anguish; his pain, his suffering, his _despair._ He was better than this! He _had_ to prove to everyone that he was so much more. Being an orphan had always made people question his abilities, his motives, his _existence_. The ignorant observers always loved prodding at his old wounds he desperately wanted to hide. But they poked at it until it _festered_ , and _hurt_ , until it _reminded_ him of what he had to do. _Of what he had to prove._ They had no right. _No right_ to take away his childhood of knowing what he truly was; to be away from those clueless muggles who hurt him as a child. Tom Riddle was Salazar Slytherin's heir, entitled to have something _bigger_ than a hovel full of starving children filled with depravity and desperation. He inherited old blood that was much more purer than those bumbling idiots. The Ministry knew it—they kept track of children who were born to magic, after all!

And that proved the Wizarding World to be at fault as well, not taking care of their future—the _children_ who were meant to know what they were. His own family—his _uncle_ —didn't want him. He was a _bastard._ So did his own father who was the exact replica of him, albeit, Tom was _much stronger_. No one had wanted him into both their worlds—different yet connected somehow.

 _Neglect._

 _That was what was in common._

So why would he want both worlds? Why would he want to be part of this world that left them exposed to many sorts of danger?— _unseeing_ to the threats that hung over them at large? They left them weak and useless and Tom would change that. _He'd change that. It wasn't a fucking promise he would keep, because it was a future he was going to secure._

"R— _Tom?_ "

In a flash, he pressed the tip of his yew wand against the soft part of her neck, in her jugular, successfully pinpointing her pulse point. It was like magic, thrumming through his veins, but it was her heartbeat he felt, resonating through his wand to his body, like a different core altogether. He was ready to snuff it out— _her life_ —but her bright eyes and her red cheeks, and her riotous curls brought him out of his stupor.

 _There._ There it was. The silence that left so many questions to be asked with far too little answers. Many things came with silence. Like death. After the flash of green light—or after the piercing of a blade—or after the crush of bones—after the lock of a cellar door—after being thrown into the dark— _silence followed_. Always there— _relentless_ and _wielding superiority_ over the death. The chaotic peacefulness after anguished cries. It always followed Tom wherever he went, leaving excited whispers into deathly silence. He hated it. It meant an end to something.

He looked downat Hermione Granger's face, shock evident in her wide, doe eyes, staring back at him with slight apprehension. Her warm features—the red of her cheeks, her dark brown curls, her copper freckles and her maroon scarf—all became a strange contrast to the cold surroundings. She was singled out from the dusty interior of the tower—grey, cold, and dark, making her a light through the darkness.

She was an anomaly. A radiating power he had collected the previous night.

"You disrupted my thoughts," he told her, voice hollow of any emotion. He looked at her underneath his lashes, height dwarfing her over his form and shadowing her. He watched, fascinated as her sigh let out a gust of sound and visible cloud through the air. She put sound into the deathly silence—as if she was the life that had long come to claim the chaotic abundance of peaceful noise, breathing life back into what was not there. Her simple meek presence overpowered that of which was not there. A part of him wanted to kill her presence.

Hermione looked up at him, brows knitted, expression perturbed. She held her hands up, fingers peeking through her jumper with an ' _H_ ' at the front. It looked a bit too big on her.

"Yes, I did," Hermione answered him slowly, warm brown eyes darting to his wand, then up to his face. She gnawed on her lip, before clearing her throat sharply, slightly annoyed. "Do you mind?" She gestured to his wand, still pressed at her throat, and he could still feel her fast pulse across his body, thrumming like an entity foreign yet will not be forgotten. He lowered his wand slowly, now fully aware of her presence inside the Astronomy Tower, suspicious of her sudden interruption.

He narrowed his eyes on her slightly, watching her."You called me by my given name," he brought her to attention.

"I have," she answered nonchalantly, before actually looking up at him, scrutinising "Is there a problem?"

"No," he shook his head, feeling despondent at that moment, conversing with Hermione Granger with no actual reason except for the fact she had interrupted him in the middle of his solitude. Normally, if it was anyone else, he'd tell them to leave, or _hurt_ them if he wanted. But steering his thoughts away from earlier, he thought it'd be better to talk to Hermione Granger now, figuring that it _was_ why he was waiting here. He had needed to talk to her about her magic and her weaknesses.

Now, he wondered why she had not woken up early in the morning, Normally, she did. It was peculiar to know she hadn't woken up at the crack of dawn.

"It's fine," he continued his response, deciding it was for the best to talk to her now than another time. "If you can call me Tom, then it'd be fitting for me to call you Hermione as well," he told her. Meeting her eyes, he suddenly found dark crescents beneath them, slightly sunken and clearly, her indication of lack of sleep. He scrunched his brows together. "You did not sleep properly." It was a statement.

Hermione shook her head, unconsciously smiling, and Tom was astonished at the genuine action it represented. Hermione Granger and Tom Riddle had always been rivals. Now that common ground had been established—though, her loyalty now fell to him—he'd never thought he'd see her much warmer, reserved emotions displayed so openly to him. It made her look frail— _weak_. Not like a knight. Something so less—but showing emotions even in his imposing, dangerous presence?— _she was something more._ That's what it seemed like.

He had just pointed a wand at her throat a few seconds ago. Normally, his knights would cower. Hermione Granger did not.

"I was up reading the books you lent me last night," she told him, smiling serenely, shrugging her shoulders. But other than that, the rest of her was guarded, as if she was scrutinising him under her bout of words and gestures. "And then I woke up late and went to the Great Hall for breakfast, but Abraxas told me you were searching for me. He pointed me here. What do you want to talk about?" Her soft demeanour disappeared in an instant, evaporating into a stronger front, managing a shield on all sides. Tom silently appraised her change, the power she was exuding befitting as his weapon.

"I wanted to talk about your magical core. I've given you books to understand the magic that lies inside of you. But your magic still seeps from your form—and I suppose we need to work on that. We need to see how much you can do with your magic practically, and not only work on theory within books. We have to sort things out." He informed her, eyes blank and unblinking.

He watched, slightly amused as she seemed to bristle at something he said.

" _We?_ " Hermione echoed, as if not expecting to work with him.

" _Yes,_ we." Tom pursed his lips slightly as he practically saw the implication within Hermione's mind grow to life. Her wide, shocked eyes darted to his face, where the only thing he did was drew a brow upward, assessing the rest of her with slight annoyance and amusement.

"B-but you and I—we'll be _alone_ —and Merlin knows—!" Hermione spluttered helplessly, curls bouncing to life with indignation, and her magic sprung forth to shroud the air in thick warmth, relieving themselves of the winter chill, which only proved his point of needing to help her. Tom pulled an angry scowl on his face.

"I am _not_ that kind of man, Gr— _Hermione_ ," Tom snapped at her, blasting that notion out of her head as quickly as it came. He had all the time in the world, yes, but he had never ever even indulged himself in the mere thought of the illusion of pleasures of the flesh, or even taking advantage of her in their lonesome. It was simply primal. _Primiive._ Tom felt above that, for he had never felt the need to ever yield to simple pleasure. He was simply too busy with other things.

"I've done this with others before, but your're different. I've only trained Abraxas and the others with their magic—not their magical core," he told her, soothing her thoughts down, feeling quite ruffled at having the need to reassure her. He had forgotten that with Hermione Granger, she was quick to worry and anger, and her bloody Gryffindor pride couldn't take being alone with a Slytherin. She was also very cautious, and quite skittish. It was infuriating

Hermione glanced up at him, her brows knitted. "Really? I assumed you always did things by yourself." She voiced her thoughts aloud. Tom watched her in the corner of his eyes. "And you looked troubled earlier. _Lonely._ "

 _Lonely._ That was a word he had been long acquainted to, but had never liked.

It had accompanied him for years, hanging over his head and always in the back of his mind. But he hadn't quite known it himself, having chosen to _limit_ himself from others, rather than having others desert him. _Well, he_ chose _it after having others desert him._ But indeed, he quite knew the brief pain of loneliness.

 _And he did not like it._

Tom flashed his eyes to her, filled with anger at having to be reminded of his past. It itched at his skin, the way she said it with frivolity just nipping at his patience. _No matter how powerful she was, she was infuriating._ He needn't be reminded of his weaknesses.

Needn't be reminded of what _kind_ of loneliness he had experienced, and what kind he had indulged himself in.

"I am not _lonely_ , Hermione. I only _choose_ to be alone," he hissed at her, slamming the air with his magic, heating the air with an ominous demon that nipped at their fingers and their exposed skin. The demon danced in the air, _playing_.

Tom watched her, waiting for her to get scared, or cower under the tremendous weight of his magic. But in her eyes—something cracked—the shield she had put up lowering. She looked at him—and the sadness there—so palpable. _Tangible_. It was surreal, seeing such a poignant emotion escape her eyes and touch the heated air. She was different from his knights, he realised.

All it took was one touch to dominate his anger, letting the air become shrouded with the icy chill of winter.

Hermione looked out to the large balustrade of the Astronomy tower. Her thoughts rampaged, he could see that through her eyes. It was like a mirror. She had described how troubled he looked awhile. Now she did. And it honestly felt so strange and intriguing, he couldn't help but stare.

Inside, it made him angry how still simply _human_ and still ever _feeling_ he was. How he became so responsive to weak emotions.

Hermione slowly drew back the shield in her eyes, whispering in a hard voice, "But loneliness is... _inconvenient._ "

It was.

 _It truly was_ , and Tom quelled down his flare of anger. He hated how the witch knew so much. How utterly vulnerable it also made him feel to know that his weapon was as much knowing as he was to certain things. It fucking sucked. He turned away from her, sweeping his magic across the tower, feeling Hermione turn to his back at the change of atmosphere. He jerked his head in the direction of the stairs, downwards, and beckoned her over.

"For others, yes, but for me, it is my only reprieve," Tom told her.

Hermione stayed oddly silent the rest of the way as he lead her to the Black lake, her gaze burning holes into his back as he contemplated the silence. The chaotic noise. Her presence. The life. The loneliness.

How he had always thought that no other minds could certainly know what being lost in the world was.

He dashed the feeling away like he did with his thoughts that morning until it was nothing but a mere inconvenience.

It worked.

...0O0O0O0O0O0...

He had hurt her.

It was not intentional.

Studying on Magical Essence and cores by the lake had been a great idea, out of the sight of others who lingered in the castle. Harnessing the threshold of magic inside of a witch and wizard was quite a difficult task for those who didn't fully recognise their potential. Hermione Granger had surely noticed her own, but the mere thought of letting her magic run rampant held her back.

Tom had grown tired of her reluctance, knowing that only theorising on her capabilities wouldn't do her any good. He wanted her to experience strength that she could never before. She was strong, but her body was far too weak. She hadn't had an ounce of experience of ever using her magic with intent to defend or attack. She hadn't been forced before to use it at her will, or at her precipice.

So he duelled her, to the point he was pushing her to defend herself.

He was ruthless, and he knew that.

He duelled her to the point that he drew blood.

Crimson painted the snow on the ground in droplets, blooming a warm contrast against the ethereal white of the snow. It flew over their heads like a sign of change. He wasn't simply attaining power for himself. It was for her as well. He didn't need someone who was _weak_ amongst his knights.

No matter how brilliant of a mind she had, it was no good if she did not put it to use in an actual fight.

" _Get up_ ," he hissed at her, watching her as she glared up at him.

He hadn't drawn blood in a long time, and it sent a thrill down his spine, to be able to stretch and test his magic as well with her. His magic always clashed with Hermione, her magic being the only thing that can withstand his. His magic was like a demon, awakening at his command. It demanded to be satisfied. To be used.

It ate at him everyday, like a parasite. It was not his intention to feed it. He needed to quell it down. He gripped his wand tightly, despondent to the world but wary to what was around them. Too aware of of his own, like a snake, waiting for the given moment to lash out.

 _To kill._

"Shut up!" Hermione spat from her spot on the ground, her wand drawn, but pressed to the snow like a staff, wanting her to stand up. But her legs were too weak. Her fingers shook from the relentless cold. The gash on her leg bled steadily, and her face was pinched red with pain. The sight of her blood sent a jolt through his veins; like a thrill, drilling into his mind.

He pressed his wand to her temple, threatening. _Unafraid._ It was an extension of himself, reaching out to her. He held it there like a weapon, searing it into her head. Drawing out what power she could.

He was at power at that moment, looming above her. It was a manic, satisfaction that blinded his senses. He needed to control himself. _Control her._

"Accept it, Hermiome." He whispered to her, loud enough for her to hear. _Only her._ "You're _weak._ You can't become strong if you shut everything out. You are gifted with power, yet you do not use it. You're not _worthy_ of it if you keep it shut inside. Let it _control_ you."

Hermione looked up at him, and there was a blazing inferno in her eyes, staring back at him like a void. He stared back. And he found her defiance, lurking at the edge of her mind, tumbling, shaking, _breaking free._ She didn't like being treated like this, he knew that. But her bladed gaze pierced his soul, and he saw the torment. The loss in her eyes. She _hated_ him at that moment, and he revelled in the dark emotion, searing his skin and permeating the air like a thick fog. It raised goose flesh on his skin, piercing like needles. The lioness looked like she was crouching low now, and he felt the power she radiated. The heat—the searing gaze.

He felt bare, and it was _intoxicating._ He hadn't been challenged in a long time. It made him shake with excitement, accepting the rush of nerves and magic. He loved being at power, it made him drunk.

 _He was lost in it_.

"I won't let you control _me_ , Tom," she snarled, and before he could even twitch his wand in his fingers, she gripped his hand, _hard._ With a hot pulse of magic, she managed to concentrate magic into her hands that seared his flesh like a hot rod, burning him through her fingers. And then, he was forced away, like a stupefy that pulled at his gut and forced him into the air for a few seconds.

He met the ground with a thump, his mind reeling.

He ought to be angry with her. He really should be. But he helped her channel her magic, and that was enough of an accomplishment for now. In the inside, he felt quite proud—but also unnerved. _He hadn't had anyone force him down in a duel for a long time either._

The thrill it all came in and the challenge she posed. She was like change now. After years of boring rivalry with her and navigating through fools, he finally managed to change all of that. Finally, he would be able to test her skills—which he had always been thinking of before now.

He brought himself to sit up on the ground, and he stared at her form, bleeding and panting.

She was just another pawn in his plan. _Or maybe his actual knight._

But her defiance.

It was fresh.

It was change.

But it would be torment for her if she kept defying him.

"A-Are you alright?" Hermione asked him. Tom stared inquisitively at her, nodding his head but coming to stand up to only step back into her space. Her torso heaved up and down with what would be the sudden loss of her erratic magic. It blazed the end of her hair, like a signature. Her brown doe eyes watched him.

" _You're_ the one who's hurt, Hermione." He told her, matter of fact. He pointed his wand at her leg and healed the gash. He stared at her at the tip of his nose, offering his hand to pull her up. He forgot the burn marks she had left on his hand, but didn't show the pain on his face when she gripped his fingers, biting down on his lip harshly like a muffle.

"Hm, who's fault do I think _that_ is?" she snapped at him sarcastically. Tom gave her a small smirk, and Hermione fumed at his nonchalance.

"Next time, don't hold back, Granger. Use your magic if you must."

He left her trailing after him.

It hadn't been his intention to hurt her.

But it also hadn't been her intention to burn him.

He had to control or they'd both burn from her defiance.

...0O0O0O0O0O0...

 **Well, that was fun to write!**

 **I had a hard time expressing Tom at the end, but it came out pretty decent to me.**

 **Drop a review if you have certain opinions! Thank you!**


	5. Chapter Five: Mindless Encounter

**A/N before we start, my lovely readers.**

 **I've mentioned before that this book is AU-ish, so everything won't exactly be canon.**

 **I've always thought before that Hermione Granger was a very good person, but of course, she has this sorta shady attraction to the Dark Arts. With her brilliance, wit, and her skills, I wouldn't exactly deduce that she has only stuck to the Light Arts so far in her life.**

 **So, in this story, Hermione has this unknown past that she has kept herself. She's not some Mary Sue character with a tragic past, of course, though you may get that impression. But I'll be revealing a deeper, darker part of my Hermione in this story that plays along with her past and is a very vital part of her existence that shapes her to the unavoidable dark path she will take.**

 **So, I hope you guys will get through this chapter, as it is more of a filler rather than the actual events that will take place. But it is a push towards that. And this whole book so far has not been beta'd, and I am my own proof-reader so far. So, I hope you guys will forgive me for any spelling or grammar mistakes. Now, on with the story!**

 **Chapter Five**

" _ **If war and tyranny come to this land, it will be in the guise  
of fighting a foreign enemy."  
**_ **—James Madison**

War will never be pleasant or terrible. To realise the dangers and perils may be needed and apparent, but not where countless died. Not where civilians were murdered. Not where they were oppressed. Not where people's lives were actually being taken. He'd rather prefer the detriment of only one, rather than all. For— _for the greater good_. But what was good? Which was great?

To kill for peace? To sacrifice for war? What had been great about shedding blood? _Sacrifice. Sacrifice will always be the answer. Whatever cause it may be for._ Had he not learned all those years? He had stacked himself with knowledge ever since he had been so young, walking alongside this man. Bonded with him. Befriended him. Valued him. Loved him.

 _Parted from him._

He _had_ known what was good. But when he met Gellert Grindelwald, the boy was charismatic and charming. He was always searching for something new, _creating_ something new, envisioning a world that played along with their notions and their desires, that it captured his interest and enamoured him. They wanted to change the world according to how they liked it—" _for the greater good, Albus,_ "—and wanted to set common ground for everyone. Eliminate their foes. Destroy those who were corrupted and abused their power. Those who didn't know what _actual_ power was like under their disposal.

But the world can never change only for one person.

And the world cannot be changed solely by hate.

Albus learned he had not changed. But he had realised the path he had been taking with Gellert, and let the boy— _now a man_ —destroy him. Destroy his mind. His conscience. Albus let Gellert change who he was in favour for power. _And what else?_

 _What did he not have?_

 _Love. Real love._

Real love from a man he had once considered his equal. Albus Dumbledore can never forgive himself for nearly falling down the path of what could've been the fallen. Albus can never forgive himself for letting Gellert go down there as well, and now it was too late. The pain to deal with someone he had once trusted squeezed his heart in a death-like grip. All his emotions, his ideas, his brilliance, his desires, his weaknesses—all used and woven together by Gellert to achieve _their_ dream.

Now, it was only Gellert's.

Albus had realised how horrible things had gone. How things had ended up now, after losing Ariana. After realising he was changing, yet still not had changed.

His enemy had always been himself, and he tried to vanquish that. But this enemy of his was also Gellert— _had always been_ —for Gellert had shaped his alter ego. Had brought the winds of change with him. Now, the responsibility had fallen onto his shoulders. Now Albus was Gellert's only equal who knew enough of his mind and his skills to know how to defeat the man. To defeat the tyrant.

 _The murderer._

 _Morgana, even saying it was just awful._

But Albus already knew he had lost the battle with Grindelwald. Gellert did not love him enough to turn away from his plans, and Albus had been foolish enough to have thought he was loved. That he could be fully understood. But no. Many things never came easy. Many things _never_ went easy with him.

Now, winter had come with its frigid presence, reminding Albus of distant times. It reminded him of what had been once there. His memories that built his entire being, the tower that stood tall, but was old. _Crumbling_ , and wasn't ready to stand at all. He should've known better. He should've.

Now many ran. So little had survived. _Most now bore scars._

And whenever they looked at him, they saw a saviour. Saw their hero—or someone who _will_ be. Many expected him to get up from his sorry bum and defeat the man who killed many muggleborns and wizards alike. The man he had found a connection with. The man who knew him like the threads of his own soul. So, Albus felt the weight of their lives on his shoulders. Albus endured their awe and fascination with him, because he was simply the only one who could defeat his friend.

He, himself, did not know if he could.

Or if he even wanted to.

"Albus— _Albus_ ," Dippet stressed, eyes boring into him. The thin, nimble man set down the parchment he had been holding in his hands. Albus stared at him, already knowing what he would say, but let him anyway. To let the weight settle in deep. It was clear—what had happened previously. What had made times right now so difficult; why people were seeking his help.

Albus gave Dippet his attention, and Dippet gave the parchment to him, but Albus made no motion to read it yet as Dippet went in to say something.

"News have come Albus—that Grindelwald has been attacking more families," Headmaster Dippet informed him, rubbing his tired eyes, and looking sickly and withering. "Muggleborns and muggles alike. _Making an example of them._ "

Albus took a subtle intake of breath, the action in itself taken to relieve his pain.

But it burned much more following it, and it _hurt_ , and he revelled in it.

"S-Several of our students have already lost many things to the muggle war. Now Grindelwald is a threat to them too. And the Ministry is asking for you help, dear friend. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement has been asking for you help. Chief Auror Gildens has been seeking your guidance, Albus. Grindelwald has already targeted Britain and putting his plans into effect, forcing families to flee here. It is not a bright time, Albus, friend, I know."

Dippet sighed.

Albus pressed his lips into a grim line, ignoring the pain constricting his chest. What could he do? What _should_ he do?

If things were so serious now, what was Gellert's plan?

What did he want to fully achieve?

It was clear to Albus, but he couldn't help but question it all.

"What is it that they want me to do, Armando? I am but a Professor in Hogwarts. _Surely_ , Grindelwald won't be..." Albus trailed off.

Dippet glanced down from Albus to the parchment he had given him. Letting out a shaky breath, he gestured to the parchment.

The sudden weight of it felt heavy in Albus Dumbledore's hands.

"I am afraid, Albus, that we are in danger. The _children_ are. "

Albus felt something shift within him. Gellert may surely had been his friend before, but now—they were _enemies_. There was no good side nor bad side in a war, but Albus knew what he could do. _What he should do._

Protect the children when the time came.

Protect the same way he should've protected himself from the allure of power.

Protect the same way he should've Arianna.

...0O0O0O0O0O0...

 _Grindelwald Puts A Mark_

 _On December 22, 1943, at 5 in the evening, several bodies of families have been found in Little Hangleton; muggle and muggleborn alike. First Witness, Edward Garden, had reported seeing the bodies hung from raised posts, bodies mutilated and unidentifiable. The mark of Grindelwald's army had been etched into one of the victims' limbs. 19 Casualties in all had been found. 12 adults adults and 7 children._

 _Aurors on the scene found remnants of dark magic, and have altered the memories of muggles who've seen the gruesome scene. Grindelwald now lurks close in—_

The _Daily Prophet_ fell away, limp in her hands, just a mere peek into the reality around them. A small, moving photo of bodies being lain on the ground continued action on the paper, ink stretching over the creamy expanse of parchment. A queasy feeling invaded her stomach, like a cruel, harsh reality check that shuttered out all of her nerves.

Hermione didn't like it. Just knowing that Grindelwald could enact such cruelty, violence, and oppression on mere innocent civilians repulsed her. He was a _vile_ , _sadistic_ , _violent_ individual. What would he gain by instilling fear? What would he gain by shedding the blood of innocents?

Each day, more were dying.

And Hermione didn't know what she could do with that knowledge. What she was even supposed to _feel._ Relieved that it was not her parents? For Merlin's sake, it could even _be_ her parents. But her parents were back in London, and that was fine. _They_ _were fine_. They kept sending letters to her, back and forth. They gave her presents as much as they could.

But Hermione was not fine.

There was a war both in the muggle world and wizard world and where did she think safety was? What if Grindelwald targeted Hogwarts? All the witches and wizards in Britain who lay unknowing? The muggles who lived ignorant?

Faintly, the unease settled into Hermione's bones like nylon thread, weaving its way into her nerves and _pulling_ —as if it was tugging on her worries. Her fears. She was perplexed with the feeling, which begun ever since the news of the Second World War had risen, or the stage of hunger the muggle world seemed to be in when she was very young. Many more terrors had began from there, and Hermione sometimes asked herself selfishly _why_ she had been born to this time. To this age of destruction and darkness, as if she was instated into a badly written narrative.

How was she able to live in it?

Setting aside the _Daily Prophet_ , Hermione looked down into her plate of breakfast. She pushed around her food, thoughts numbly drowned out as she thought of her bitter Christmas morning. Harry had sent her letters over the few days, and Ron had also sent her letters, but he never plucked it within himself to actually apologise to her. _Properly._ It was like he thought he made no mistake or assumption at all, and Hermione was quite hurt that he'd never thought about her feelings much more deeply regarding about her well being as well.

She pressed the hurt away soon after, knowing that she and Tom were somewhat acquaintances now, despite Ron's disapproval and Harry's slight apprehension, and she was after all, guilty as Ron's assumptions were quite right. She had not told them yet that Tom had somewhat made her his acquaintance— _or follower, to be precise_ —because she was afraid of what they might say, or do. And she was very curious as to what Riddle would be doing with his accomplishments, or his missions. What he could possibly get with helping her with her magic, as he was inexplicably gifted in spell casting and many practical Arts.

But were they right?

Should she stay away from the dark boy? The enigma who erected walls without even a twitch of his fingers? The boy who disarmed people with a simple smile? It was intimidating, to say the least. Hermione had been fascinated with his group so far, _The Knights of Walpurgis_ , and it seemed quite fine, as they offered her a place where she could be herself. But Tom Riddle was the power that bound them all together. His charm and charisma served as a way of manipulation into putting them all together, delving into their minds and seeing their inner most desires.

But it was _that_ power in particular she was fascinated of. What she was afraid to see. Because it was so _unnaturally_ strong—such a potent mask built firmly on his face, and such rich, powerful magic transfixed into his being, it wasn't even _normal._ Everything that was also supposed to be a human reaction—like being relaxed, talking to others, laughing, or even smiling felt practised. _Perfected._

"Why am I even thinking about it?" Hermione grumbled to herself, knowing that Tom wouldn't be having another discussion with her about Magical Theories, seeing as he was busy on _Christmas Morning._ But Hermione waved off the matter, not exactly caring if he was busy or not, for she was not _attached_ to him because of his complex ideas and notions, and the way he worded things.

Tom Riddle was just a very strange, and scarily interesting boy who seemed to love the Dark Arts and ordered his Knights like a sociopath. _A boy who also saw it fit to help her control her magic._

Hermione mulled the thought over. If she thought about it, she was in deeper shit than she thought. It was not _normal_ for someone who has tried to make your school years absolute hell, to just ask you to join them. Even Circe knew Tom didn't seem to think of people as actual _people._ He thought they were pawns, and that thought in itself was disconcerting. She knew what being a pawn felt like, and having a poor life in the dangerous, dark parts of London had made her attuned to that.

"Thinking about what, Granger?" an accented voice inquired across her, and Hermione jumped, her heart going _bang bang_ against her chest. She looked up to find the only other Gryffindor who stayed during the holidays. A refuge who escaped from France. _Andre Pula._

"Merlin, you scared me, Andre," Hermione huffed, putting a hand over her heart. Andre let out a small chuckle, an apologetic smile stretching his face. He was a kind, but also strange boy who secluded himself all the time, but became very open when talked to. He had lost his mother to Grindelwald, and his father had fled with him away from France. Hermione pitied the boy and always treated him kindly, being patient with helping him find English words he didn't know with his french.

"Apologies...I did not mean to scare," he apologised, pushing his long dark hair away from his face, hazel eyes shining. "I wanted to know what was... _running_ in your head," Andre told her with a tilt of his own head.

"You mean what was _going on_ in my head," she corrected him, and he nodded. Leaning back a bit, Hermione looked up into the Great Hall's ceiling; the phantom snow fell from the sky and owls fluttered across the expanse of emptiness. She willed her thoughts away. But there were breaths of ghosts, breathing down her neck and gripping to her skin like clothing. Andre's stare pierced her like the glean of a sunset across the horizon, and she felt like she was struggling to breathe. Mutilated bodies appeared in the forefront of her mind, haunting her. _Scaring her._ She pictured them to be her parents involuntarily, including her friends. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut.

 _Don't falter. Don't get lost._

"It's fine—just nothing in particular. I'm just worrying about my family and friends," Hermione sighed, slumping quite a bit.

"Because of Grindelwald?" Andre clarified with a hard, placid voice. Hermione nodded reluctantly, hesitant of mentioning anything more about Grindelwald knowing about Andre's loss, even though he had brought up Grindelwald himself. But Andre sighed in resignation, knuckles white from clenching and his face pinched in worry and pain.

"I understand ze worry, Granger. With him around, things are...eh, _bad._ When you lose someone to that—that... _evil_ bastard, you worry about...everything." Andre tried hard to express himself through his accent, words clinging with loathing and regret, though he refused to meet her eyes. His voice alone was so convincing.

"Thank you, Andre. But it's fine. We're all safe here in Hogwarts." _She hopes._

Their conversation faltered quite a bit after that, not very much inclined to continue their words when they didn't know each other beyond their initial impressions of each other.

 _Out of anything,_ Hermione thought, _this was the most direct conversation he had initiated._ Something niggled at the back of Hermione's mind, itching at her. It was irritating really, her thoughts overriding her mind. _Something_ was not right, but she could not think of anything that was wrong. But she had to be wary. Cautious. Shrewd.

Andre's voice broke through her reverie.

"Granger, do you...do you really _believe_ that 'Ogwartz is... _safe_?"

Hermione let Andre's slowed words sink in; a sponge lapping up water. She inhaled sharply, thoughts taking down a turn of endless, unfortunate possibilities, which were all unpleasant and making her unnerved in the sight of Andre, who watched her sharply out of the corner of his own eyes. His sharp eyes reminded her of Tom Riddle, but Tom's eyes were like the starless night sky that didn't give anything away. He was a dark canvas that laid empty on an easel.

That unnerved her far more than Andre Pula.

"Wh-what do you mean, Andre?" Hermione asked with a tremulous voice, turning down all unpleasant notions in her head, allowing confusion to cloud her quite a bit. Perhaps Andre was apprehensive? Scared of all the attacks and worried over the security of Hogwarts? But she could not erase that unease, knowing that even if danger was evidently _outside_ of Hogwarts, didn't mean that danger did not live _inside_. Tom Riddle, in a sense, was evidence of this, knowing he was an enigma with dangerous tendencies to seek out the darkest of things and was purely not afraid of such dark notions, because he was simply _enamoured_ with the thought of power and the forbidden, and things dark and evil— _but that was not evil. Curiosity was not evil. Good and evil was ideological. Subjective._

 _Complex yet irrational._

And Hermione was still working with Tom, still quite intrigued with him and the power he exuded, and his ability to control very unstable magic. Tom Riddle was powerful and dangerous, but he was curious over _her_ as well, which meant that even _she_ was dangerous. But she was also curious and from what she could perceive, curiosity was _not_ evil. Not without knowing the reasons, and Hermione was about to get to the bottom of that.

Hermione pressed her lips into a thin line as Andre met her eyes. These times were not safe, and Andre was one of the results of all the destruction beyond their castle walls. He was a boy who lost his mother and had to fled with his father into Britain, all away from their home simply because a _sycophant_ wanted to restore order, deem themselves superior and wanted to rise over ignorant muggles, simply for the _greater good._ But nothing was good out of bloodshed, nor was manipulation, and oppression, and _murder._

Andre slipped out of his seat, shaking his head. Hermione did not know what the boy meant, and this Christmas was ultimately the strangest she had had.

"Bad things happen te zose who think...everything is _safe_ ," was what he simply said, before turning around to exit the Great Hall.

Somehow, Hermione found herself intrigued much more by the boy in between the mere seconds of their words, as if she was picking up on a message hidden behind words like shadows across the plain darkness. But his words were blatant knives, piercing her soul like la guillotine through her head, her mind detached to her feeling body, her soul breaking free from the confines of her bones.

This year was turning stranger towards the end of it; a changing season crippling trees into winter, and putting sleep into many things once awake, but in this case, something cold and alive came out of the winter. Hermione felt danger in the oncoming blizzard that was soon to meet Hogwarts. It rattled and pounded her mind, because it was such a potent yet _familiar_ danger that burrowed out of her dark memories.

The first change was Tom Riddle, wanting her to become stronger and control magic and erase all notions of good and evil.

Then came Andre Pula who wanted her to be wary; to see beyond what was safe and to sink her head into danger.

What was happening?

From the page of the _Daily Prophet,_ Grindelwald's mark mocked her. She felt like a weak thing entering a new world. She was being introduced into something much more dangerous once more without her friends, all beginning from her poor childhood and struggling family, then into the wizarding world, filled with prejudices. Now, there were two wars being fought in the world, and now two fights were being fought inside of her. Many things were happening all at once, torment in the form of two torn worlds ripping across her head like fire and ash, both so dangerous.

And in the inside, Hermione felt something inside of her.

Something she had lost when she came to the Wizarding World, because the Wizarding World made her feel so safe, it was weakening and heady, and misleading. But now that it was dangerous, ghosts of the past now haunting her once more. Those ghosts who never left her alone.

She felt her instinct awakening. Her self-preservation.

If she wanted to survive this world, she had to experience and learn, with two wars being fought.

And as strange as Andre was, and as elusive as Tom was, they were right.

She lacked experience.

The willingness to dive into the fray; the ability she had all but forgotten after she was introduced into the Wizarding World. People made her believe everything was safe, and now, when some of her new classmates being refuges with scars of the war showing in the form of bruises underneath their eyes; with families being slaughtered for the world to see. With logic of thought and order but forgotten in the husk of war and their human nature to attack and to defend present in their animosity. With peace being fought in the clutches of blood shed. With blood that ran the streets like rain water and houses that burned from bombings, and with flesh and blood carved the future.

Now, being _safe_ and _secure_ was simply not true.

It was just a dream.

She had tried to avoid it all along, but now it was blaring signals inside the bubble of safety she had built around herself.

The picture of her perfect world shattered right across from her, and it was quickly reverting back to her old life. To her once sad, struggling childhood, hidden as smudges behind her eyelids, clear as day inside of her dreams. The nightmares she had once lived that now came in full force. The things she had done which she was not proud of. The darkness of her past that she buried beneath her knowledge and her wit, that it left everything she had once been unrecognisable.

 _Don't falter. Don't get lost._

 _Stand up. Search a path._

...0O0O0O0O0O0...

" _You want ta help ya family, don't ya? Then suck it the fuck up and let's steal some," he ordered her with a hiss, knuckled hands threatening her at his sides. He was dirty, with stained trousers, the clothing on his knees ripped and, one of the straps of his suspenders snapped apart. His white Oxford was browned by dirt and some of its parts red—_ blood, Hermione recalled _—and the rest of him was thin and gangling, only posed threateningly by his sinewy muscles._

" _B-but you got hurt! H-h-he socked you in the eye, Wendell," Hermione blustered, tears threatening at the edge of her lower eye lids. If her tears were to ever fall, she would not stop crying. She knew that, because she cried too much these days. She cried from the hunger, from the bruises, from the wounds, from the scars. She cried from the memories. The streets. The cruelty._

 _And if all this consistency were to ever stop, she'd also drop her defences._

 _Little Hermione knew that._

 _It was Wendell who taught her with a punch after all._

" _I get hurt every bloody day, Mione," he spat, glaring at her through one of his open eyes that were not bruised shut like a blueberry. The end of his thin lips curled up in a snarl, blood dripping from a missing spot of his teeth that had been knocked out. Wendell stood up with his full height, and immediately, Hermione tensed._

Don't punch her again, please.

Don't kick her again.

Another time.

Just another time.

" _If ya think being weak and not acting in time gets yer fucking ass anywhere, it doesn't, you bitch," Wendell snarled, pulling Hermione up against him by the collar of her dirty dress, ripped at the ends and the cuffed wrists. The collar of her dress stretched a tiny bit, exposing her collar bone. Hermione knew better and kept her mouth shut. "Yer_ weak. _Ya know that. So learn to suck it up,_ sweetheart _, or ya won't survive in this place. You'd die faster than even living."_

And your family would be better without another person.

 _He forgot to say that, but it didn't matter when things that were unsaid entered her mind—like smoke from nicotine that burned her lungs. She knew many people loved to smoke, and they used it against her. They inhaled the smoke and blew it back at her until it made her eyes water and made her choke on her words. She couldn't tell them to_ stop _, or else they'd burn her with the ends of their cigars. They'd let the burn mark her, and she'd be helpless against the pain._

 _Not that it bothered her anymore._

" _Sorry! I-I'm sorry, Wendell! I'll do it...I'll try and steal it again," Hermione pleaded, lungs letting out quick gasps of fear. It didn't do her any good to get so intimidated quite quickly. All the other children had told her that weakness shouldn't be shown. It was not acceptable, otherwise, they'd be caught. Hermione controlled her laboured breaths caused by the boy who shoved her back with an ominous glare, her right shoulder blade meeting the bricked wall of the building they were hiding in between first._

" _Try_ harder _then, Mione. Yer lucky that yer only doin' the easy part of this shmuck," he grumbled, taking deep breaths. Hermione nodded, relieved that he hadn't hit her._ Not yet _, anyways._

 _Creeping into the old, pastry shop in a very poor, secluded part in London proved to be quite easy with only few people coming by to even afford anything. People around these parts were poor, or homeless, because of the unemployment problems within London. Though expenses were only cheapened, and the value of the pound only dropping by twenty five percent only last year, there was only much significant change with those who were able to make their businesses flourish and for exporters who were able to sell abroad._

 _Construction of new buildings had boomed across London, but at the process, a few people lost homes. After the recent blight of unemployment only now being repaired, and some gaining back their jobs, nothing much had changed. People were still hungry._

 _Some had yet to find a job._

 _But this pastry shop would do, with an old man who owned the shop always behind the counter and, only so much as baked half-decent bread. But it was fine and it was worth it if it meant they could eat. That she could eat, before the winter were to come._

 _Wendell's plan was to distract the shop keeper or anyone else from entering the kitchens of the pastry shop while Hermione would steal pastries or anything she could bring from the inside without making a noise, just as Wendell taught her. There could be no room for error, because there was only one exit, which was an open window at the very back of the building in the storage room, cluttered with many boxes, craters, and strange items that would surely cause a noise if she were to make a wrong step. She was the only one who could fit through the opening, and the only one small enough to be able to hide in nooks and crannies, and steal things from right under their noses._

" _I'll go around now. When you hear the bell, get in," Wendell instructed her, before moving out of the mouth of the dingy alley. A few moments later, Hermione heard the bell. Moving quickly, Hermione climbed up on top of trash cans, reaching the open, broken window of the storage room and creeping in slowly._

 _Darkness greeted her on the other side. She could not see anything but the faint light from the window she had just entered through, which wasn't much. The craters and shelves and cluttered items in the storage quickly came into view as she adjusted to the dark._

 _Looking through the keyhole, Hermione began to sweat as she could hear snippets of conversation just outside the storage, right across the room. She could hear Wendell and the shop keeper._

" _R-Really, mister, I just want to a-apologise," Wendell stuttered, but Hermione practically_ heard _the lie through it all. In these parts of London, lying can get you out of trouble just as quickly as it could get you in. But Hermione felt something stir in the pit of her stomach. She didn't feel_ right. _As if something far worse would happen._

Just get the bread, and don't disappoint Wendell.

 _Turning the knob silently, Hermione crept out of the storage room slowly, light once again filtering into her vision, dust dancing gleefully in the spotlight between the darkness and the fragrance of freshly baked bread assaulted her senses. Hermione felt ready to faint in her absolute hunger. But she snapped herself right up,_ finish the plan _, as she walked across the kitchens. Hermione saw a few baskets of baked bread, and she crossed the room immediately, heart pounding in her chest, as she grappled the basket that just fit in her arms._

" _Hmph, yeah, bloody right, you street urchin. I don't take apologies lightly," the shop keeper said, voice oily and ominous, which made Hermione shiver in revulsion. Something was definitely_ wrong. _She could feel it, slowly grasping her heart as she listened on to what was said next. "Come here—I said_ come here _!"_

" _S-Sir—?"_

 _Wendell was losing his grip on the situation, Hermione realised. Her breaths became frantic. She quivered when she heard the next words._

" _Into the kitchen, you piece a'shit," the shop keeper growled. She heard a few yelps and struggles and Hermione hurried back into the storage room, clicking the door shut and hoping the shop keep didn't notice one of the baskets of bread were missing. But Wendell was inside of the kitchen and this was_ not _part of the plan. She could not just leave Wendell—_

What could she do?

What could she do?

What could she do?

 _The darkness of the storage swallowed her whole, and Hermione felt helpless. She was not be able to do anything unless she wanted the both of them caught. And Wendell was right, she was weak. And the dark room stopped her from making decisions, stripping her of her senses and tugging at her heart with an icy grip._

 _Then she heard the swift unbuckling of a belt, and then a slow dark chuckle that impaled her whole body, before she heard the crack of the belt meet soft skin; and the sound of Wendell's cries along with the jeers of the man haunted her mind. It taunted her in the darkness, enclosing her space and making her feel useless. She felt her whole body shaking with silent cries, forcing herself to shut out the pain and the suffering as she feared for Wendell. For herself._

 _And her instinct told her to_ suck it the fuck up, _and help Wendell._

 _Instinct told her to fight._

 _And instinct told her to_ kill the man _._

 _The darkness around her mocked her as the door whipped open. She felt something buzzing along her skin, crackling—_ frantic and desperate— _for release. It thrummed along her skin and numbed out her rational mind. She felt complete control over her body, yet not, for a part of her was fighting the strong current of electricity running through her veins. She felt it like euphoria on her skin, begging to be used._

 _In a blur, she saw the sterile white of the walls of the kitchen, smudged by the lack of cleanliness. She heard Wendell's deep gasps and struggled cries, saw his blood on his back, and the belt in the man's hands, and she didn't know when she felt the pull._

 _When she saw the knives in the kitchen rise and dance in her vision._

 _She didn't see the sterile white walls of the kitchen anymore because they were painted red, and she, in a daze, led Wendell out of the shop and into the alley hurriedly with her mind abuzz from the numbness. Wendell was also in a daze, still hurting, but not seeming to mind her help._

What had she done?

What had she felt?

 _Instinct became Hermione Granger, and she had forced it down, down, down into the depths of her being until it was unrecognisable._

 _But not anymore._

 _There was a war that she could see, had to be fought._

 _And she was afraid to become that person again._

 _The one who obeyed instinct and_ killed.

That was why she was enamoured by the darkness—

 _because she had a bit of her own._

...0O0O0O0O0O0...

Unwanted memories came back to Hermione later in the day, and she locked herself up in her dormitory to fight her instinct and the darkness that was inside of her in a perpetual sleep. She silently cried, even if she was alone in the 6th years dorm, she head learned to become small and silent in order not to be heard or seen. She learned to shutter out the pain when things became too much.

Hermione was easily allured by power because she couldn't control her own.

She fought her instincts all the time in favour for calculated control. When she obeyed instinct, she lost rationality. When she lost rationality, she wanted to revert back to her younger self and let loose. Let her uncontrolled facet of magic take over her senses until she rode it all out in a high of unstable magic. It was _wrong_ , and she had taught herself immediate control ever since she found out about the magical world since she was eleven.

And a part of Hermione wanted to destroy the Wizarding World for not reaching the muggleborns sooner. For not reaching _her_ out sooner, and blood had then been shed by her hands unintentionally, and she had to live through it every time she saw the Thestrals of each new term.

Her instinct and thirst for power came hand in hand.

But her rational mind wanted power over her magic.

And she couldn't do that when she suppressed it.

Her torrent of horrid memories came ripping through her once more; memories suppressed and buried so deep, she thought that they had been new memories, if she had not felt so small and new to magic in her memories. She buried her past so deep, she didn't know them. Harry and Ron didn't know them. They wouldn't understand, after all. They were introduced to magic at a young age, never expecting to use them for protection and survival out in the world of politics and laws, unlike she who had to break the very rules to survive.

Hermione Granger loved rules, to only dance along the danger of outsmarting them.

But she knew the world wasn't so innocent, yet she had blinded herself once more to a new world that was the same as the one she had been living in, albeit more lenient. In the Muggle World, she was a danger and she could kill anyone out of instinct.

 _Bad things happen to those who think everything is safe._

Andre had told her earlier.

And it was true, and deep down, she had known she had been lost inside both these worlds of her's. Muggle and Wizard. Instinct and Rationality.

Hermione remembered that she didn't want to feel lost anymore, and she remembered she had a chance to change the world, for the better, hopefully. Things came easier to Hermione when she rationalised and studied. And now, she had to listen to her instinct and rationalise it.

And she wanted to be in control of her own actions when the time came.

...0O0O0O0O0O0...

Viciously, Hermione wrapped herself up in the books Tom had given to her to study from the room of Requirement. The books were interesting; studying on the nature of magical cores and their capabilities and strengths shaped from the circumstances of their holder. But it was the nature of circumstances that intrigued Hermione. It was a personal study from the 17th century from a man named Claw Warwick of American descent.

Hermione was awfully reminded of the Salem Witch Trials that fellow wizards and witches were subjected to back in America. The burning on a stake, decapitation, torture, inquisitions were heavily emphasised upon, as well as rituals that had strengthened magical cores and witches and wizards who bound themselves to become stronger. In the Journal-like book, suffering was prominent, and the spillage of Magical blood was very high and brutal, which forced the MACUSA (the American counter part of the Ministry) to enforce their laws strictly and have little to no connections at all to Muggles. It was disconcerting, yet America was thriving. But not now, after Grindelwald had risen to expose the Wizarding World to the muggles and claim superiority over the primitive muggles who went along in life.

 _Magical Cores are the pure essence or magical presence of a witch or wizard's soul. It holds their life and is ultimately the_ magic _within them. Much like a magical core of a wand, magical cores of humans are deeply rooted within them and only the strongest know how to fully access and use their magical cores to their full capability to master it._

 _Magical Cores lay dormant within the witch or wizard for a long time until they_ will _it out of themselves to be used. Thus, circumstances or outside influence is a very heavy cause to magical cores awakening. Magical Cores release small amounts of magic to be awakened when witches or wizards enter their teens to adulthood; unlike infants who have little to no control of their magical cores at all, with their young, fragile bodies and their still unknowing minds, it helps bursts of powerful magic to take place. But as they grow older, only half of their magical cores are awakened, but not fully, which leaves their magical essence leaking out of their bodies until they all but enter the end of the cycle of life._

 _As much as blood prejudice dictates that No-Majs are weak and primitive, they evolve their minds and their ways of life, which some of us can't seem to do, like the old tradition-based Ministry of Britain. It has hindered their population and has made the count of defective pure-bred children rise higher in the past decades. Some lose their sanity, others partially or fully lose the capability to think and rationalise like a normal human being—and most others lose their magical cores from the inbreeding and the recycle of magical cores that reject their own flesh and bone and are dominated by the abundance of nothingness in return._ Squibs _, as the Brits love to call them._

 _As the '_ Squibs' _unfortunate circumstances from the inbreeding has cost them to lose their magical cores, their rights to holds wands from the incapability of magic, and loss of familial ties and rights, children born_ with _magic, and not_ from _, over the centuries, had risen in number and have become the dominant populace. Their own lineages can be traced back to old roots of magic, and the abundance of it is great; their magic accumulates over the centuries until it finds a good enough host to transfix itself within._

 _Their magical cores are stronger within their new bodies. But from over many centuries, even magic children from No-Maj families have been abandoned, ostracised, abused, and have been either punished or killed for simply existing; as cases and evidence of such have popped up over the years._

 _Magical Cores react to the experiences of their holders, especially those who are born not from magical descent. With no mechanism or knowledge to be able to control the magic within them, their magic lashes out in bursts to protect the holder—_ a type of accidental magic _, as they say. But, those holders who fully reject their magical core and refuse them—suppress them, mentally, emotionally, and physically, coupled with the outer influence of abuse and degradation, and the pressure of social prejudices, these magic holders have no outlet to decompress their piling magical cores. And their magical cores search a way to escape, therefore, it tears the holder inside out and kills them._

 _Over the centuries, there have been a handful of cases of these happening, resulting in many casualties of other people._

 _Obscurials, is what we call them._

 _Children who suppress their magic entirely until it tears them apart from the inside, and they explode from the pressure. Their magical cores become a dark stigma of unbidden magic, and once released, causes destruction in a short amount of time until they fully vanish from existence._

 _But there are rare cases of children who are able to fully control their magic at a young age in defence of themselves, and with the grasps of their magic at a youthful time being able to stretch freely and shroud their bodies in the curtain of magic, it allows them to strengthen their magical core for the dire need of survival. It dates back to the ancient time of magical ancestry—the magic of_ survival.

 _No stronger magic has ever existed, aside from the magical study of death, life, and time—ultimately, alchemy—the magic of survival is timeless. It exists within every witch or wizard, but never comes to call under their holders. Magic of Survival is all born from intent and instinct to survive. It is a strong aspect of Magical Cores that are all within every magical existence, but can rarely be awakened._

 _It all manifests when one is endangered, or is compelled to live and fight, or at times they want to defend themselves out of fear and desperation. Magic of Survival will never fall into the different categories of magic—Light and Dark. It only grows stronger with intent and becomes the will of the witch or wizard to be able to control their whole Magical Cores. But only young children ever seem to exhibit such things—and as of this date—magical cores have been becoming stronger out of the danger that had been occurring. It forces the children to awaken their cores and access their full magical capacity._

 _But with no control, it becomes dangerous._

 _My studies on Magical Cores and their essences have led me quite far. And for whoever finds this book, I hope to help those who have awakened their magical cores and essence to control their magic and sharpen it to their full capability; to stretch its flexibility and to test its bout of strength. Only the strongest are able of attaining their full strength. There is no greater power but one's control over themselves._

Hermione was intrigued by the contents of the book, her eyes flicking through the index and looking at all the topics that were printed into the parchment. The knowledge held within the book was potent; it thrummed across the pads of her fingers like a living, _breathing_ entity that called to her power encrypted into the pages that sang the secrets of her own being. She didn't want to assume such, but with Tom Riddle who gave this to her just a few nights ago, it was evident that he thought she _had_ awakened her magical core. And from what Hermione could find in the introduction of the book, she _had_ awakened her core, but she was forcing it away now. The awakening of a magical core and essence was purely instinctual and what seems to be under dire circumstance; overwhelming emotions as well, like fear, anger, desperation, and hopelessness.

 _Wendell._

Hermione shook her head, refusing to think about the memories she had long locked up in the back of her mind, though she couldn't deny that her poor living circumstances were what had forced her to awaken her magic of survival, and in order to become stronger and have perfect control to avoid danger, she had to feel and _accept_ it.

Accept a part of her that had been tainted with the blood of a man.

 _Magic of survival does not fall into the two categories of magic—_ Light or Dark.

Setting the book aside, the threads of magic that tied her hands to the hard back severed, and the air was released of the potent magic that lingered off of the pages of the book. It left her mind fuzzy; buzzing like a heated lamp shade in a sleepless night. A weight on her chest alleviated, and she struggled to escape the lake of forgotten childhood memories that drowned her inside of her reverie. The air was poignant; a heavy, musky scent of magic lingered and divided her thoughts. It reminded her of Tom Riddle, oddly. He _must've_ used this book before. He no doubt had awakened his magical core like she had, though he had more proper control.

Hermione ran her hand roughly through her hair, parting the knots that entangled her fingers, springing them into curls that defiantly stayed in her line of vision. But she didn't notice it, too trapped in her thoughts as she dispelled the magic in the air. The sharp tang of the ancient aura that broiled inside the room slowly eased out through the winter day as she sat in the Astronomy tower. The night reminded her of many things.

It made her scared of the magic that lay partially awake within her.

 _He looked at her with those dark, obsidian eyes that mimicked the starless night. He gave nothing away on his face, his shoulders relaxed, but hands clasped and the air around him waiting, as if he was about to strike._

" _They needed to survive, and the intent of which the witch or wizard had made the spells were purely for their own sake or reason. It was not_ evil _, it was_ necessary _. For_ survival _."_

Tom's words pierced through her head like an epiphany. Hermione let out a breath, heart and mind conflicting. The curly haired witch knew she was a survivor in two worlds, with wars reigning over her head. She was a survivor. A survivor. She didn't _kill_ people.

She looked down at her hands, and a few, faint scars stood stark against her pale skin; scars thin, pink and faint. She had magic, thrumming through her veins like a river; an abundance of strength and potentiality.

She was weak.

 _She is weak._

And she was not doing any better if she just let her magic fade from her being like a smog over a city. Sometimes, her body _thrummed_ with her magic, just wanting to be released from her body because of how it overflowed her being. She _hated_ being out of control. It made her feel dangerous. She was havoc in the form of skin and bones; a detriment to her own being and the others around her.

Maybe for once, she had to try it again?

Just control it?

Maybe she could.

 _Maybe._

"Just one try, Hermione," she murmured to herself, heart beating fast as trepidation began to clothe her being. A deep, empty buzzing filled her chest; an ache that felt like loneliness, but akin to that of energy that slowly crept through her veins. It tingled her skin, raising her tiny hairs as she raised her arms slightly.

The witch reminisced her childhood of accidental magic—here and there, faces popped up in her line of vision. With each face, they were marred with fear and sadness. They did not accept her. The buzzing in her body became stronger, and grew much more intense.

It spread throughout the whole of the astonomy tower, and she felt every inch of the tower; every dust, every creak of wood, every snowflake that flew in through the balustrade. She felt like a wild beast creating her own dome of caution. Every inch of the place, she could feel slight movement. Beads of sweat began to run down her forehead from her lack of control despite the chilly winter, her magic seeping through the wood and escaping her body. It was slowly weakening her as moments passed by with her controlling the shape of her magic in vain.

The foreign buzz of her magic in the air scared her, and she recoiled quite a bit, making her magic waver and become thicker. Then she felt rather than heard a presence coming up the tower, his own familiar magic meeting hers. Hermione pulled back her magic, afraid to hurt anyone. Turning around, she was not surprised to see Tom Riddle.

She was surprised though, by the look of satisfaction on his face and by the slight quirk of the end of his lips.

"Don't recoil from your magic, Granger," he told her, hands clasped behind his back, watching her every move like a critic in an exhibit. "Let it touch you and feel you, and you it. It's just like your wand—it chooses you and you master it. Your core has the risk of escaping your hold, after all. Accept it."

Hermione stared at him for a second, mouth slightly ajar. She was puzzled as to why he was there at that moment, and even more so by his odd advice. But taking her chances carefully, she acknowledged his words and nodded slightly.

"R-right," she mumbled, though she was slightly annoyed by the fact that she had to listen to him rather than find out by herself. She hated _not_ knowing things, but knowing that Tom knew better, she grudgingly followed his advice.

Body tense and stiff from his scrutinising gaze, Hermione called forth her magic and it shrouded the space around her, though not as much as before. It did not cover every inch of the room, as she found herself more reluctant to feel her magic and strengthen it. _Not with Tom bloody Riddle there_. She was afraid of what he might do to her, and even more so about what she might do to him.

"Your control over your magic is weak," he commented, and Hermione grit her teeth, though she found no ire nor belittlement in his voice. Just pure observation.

Using his own magic, Tom covered the whole Astronomy Tower in his magic, and it cocooned Hermione. It felt like a fog around her; an electric presence that brushed her being and vibrated through the air. But Hermione's magic acted like a bubble around her, swaying gently with Tom's magic.

"You need to relax, Granger," Tom told her, voice slightly disapproving.

"I _am_ trying to relax," she snapped, magic flaring dramatically.

Tom rolled his eyes, her small magical outburst proving his point. " _Clearly_ , you're not trying enough," he scoffed, moving around her. He circled around her form, like a predator eyeing his prey. Hermione had a sudden inexplicable urge to gouge his eyes out when his eyes left a trail of fire over her skin.

"Well, it's hard enough to concentrate with you walking around like _that_ , Riddle," Hermione snarled at him, her magic bubble taking up more space around the both of them.

Tom smirked slightly at her ire, finding it amusing as a certain, cold, calculative gleam entered his eyes. "Walking around like what, _Hermione_?" He rolled her name, switching from her surname to her first, as if he was tasting red wine. Hermione tried not to shiver when he walked around in the darkness once more, playing in the moonlight, eyeing her like an art piece he was crafting to his finest work. It didn't help that he looked quite charming, but his overwhelming magic pushed out any thoughts of his vanity as she stared back at him defiantly. "Are you afraid? _Shaking_?" He mused.

The sharp, condescending tone of his voice grated on her nerves. Fidgeting in her place, Hermione held in her burning hot anger and caution that threatened to spill into the air. He was talking to her as if she was something small. _Weak._ Like she was something below him, and Hermione did _not_ like it one bit. It reminded her of Wendell and her childhood of being looked down upon. A part of her was aware that Riddle's own dominant superiority complex and his cruel nature may have been the result of being ostracised and treated unequally before in his first years of Hogwarts.

So him addressing her on higher ground rather than equal, even alone in the astronomy tower, did not amuse her, though it was understandable. He always asserted authority and dominance, and it made Hermione uncomfortable. She held her ground, not exactly sure about Tom Riddle's tendency to be quickly angered. He might even have violent tendencies.

Hermione was brought back to his musing when he stepped closer to her, his magic pushing into her bubble. Hermione gasped slightly, taking a step back.

"Of course, you _must_ be afraid. But you have to control that power of your's. It can cost you your time and life when it comes to fighting and defending yourself if you don't have proper control. Tell me, what makes you so unnerved like this?" He stepped closer. Hermione stepped back.

Tom Riddle's dark eyes that reflected the dark night pierced through her being, and the air suddenly felt hard to breathe. They were an arm's distance away from each other.

"Does the darkness disturb you?"

Hermione closed her eyes briefly, remembering the storage room, and the taunting darkness, and the sounds of pain.

"Does our small distance disturb you?"

Hermione stared up at him, his warmth reminding her of his existence, yet it reminded her of cruel handling when she was a child. Being pushed over by Wendell and a few of his other friends.

Hermione felt her magic spark out control, fighting the feeling, knowing this was Riddle's way of intimidation. So Riddle's earlier words pierced through her head, and she felt her magic, and it adapted to her being, fusing with her skin and humming like a second layer of clothes, gradually gaining volume and spreading throughout the both of them on instinct. It felt euphoric to have her magic cocoon her like a warm, fluffy blanket—just like the first time she had killed a man from instinct.

But Hermione was unaware of accepting her magic, too fixated on Riddle.

" _There_ ," he breathed, registering her control over her magic. But he didn't move away. Hermione was unaware that she didn't move back either. "But one question, Hermione."

His height dwarfed her own, and distinctly, Hermione knew it was another act to make her feel intimidated. Her hum of magic played along with her emotions, and she strengthened her defences, her face stony and indifferent. Tom watched her with an unnerving conviction; face not giving anything away but his eyes that danced dangerously with mirth.

"Do _I_ disturb you?" He hissed.

Staring up into Riddle's cold eyes, she found herself submerged in confusion and uncertainty. She watched Riddle as much as he watched her, so she knew his calculated steps and movements. She knew how much he faked things, and she knew those sparks of anger, and that cold, stiff mask on his face.

So, she wasn't afraid of something she watched too much.

She shook her head, curls bouncing and eyes meeting him earnestly, yet lined with steel and defiance, looking through the darkness within him, seeing everything he wouldn't let anyone see. It left him _exposed._

"No, _Tom_ ," Hermione stressed, not breaking eye contact. " _Fascinated_ , is the much more correct term to use."

Hermione expected him to be angry or at least annoyed by her blatant defiance. The way she didn't exactly bend to his will nor bow in submission like Abraxas and the others did. Hermione expected him to at least act perturbed and leave her there in the Astronomy Tower for anything else important. Instead, he smirked deviously at her, leaning in a bit closer and chuckling darkly, warm breath brushing her face and something strange stirring in her chest.

"So the Gryffindor Princess isn't immune to the dark _after_ all," he surmised, cocking a brow as he tilted his head slightly. Hermione held in her breath, quite a bit taken by the deep purr of his voice that echoed inside of her own chest. The cold night air brushed through them, ruffling her hair and clothes, her curls brushing Tom Riddle's pale, clear face. It broke Hermione out of her trance and she set her jaw, glaring into his eyes.

"Who told you I was good?" She quipped. Tom rose his brows, before stepping back, not answering her rhetorical question. With this, Hermione regained her breath, finally registering the distance that they had once lacked. Snow flakes breezed through with the wind, and a few trapped themselves into Hermione' hair and her clothes. She didn't bother brushing them away.

"This seems like the second time we both meet up here and leave together, isn't it?" Tom voiced out loud suddenly, offering his arm silently. Not exactly thinking about it, Hermione took his arm and slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow, her slightly shorter arm fitting perfectly in his long angular limb. Hermione soaked up his warmth, and Tom squeezed his elbow, unconsciously doing the same as she.

Hermione eyed him speculatively, raising one of her brows. "And you've been counting these meetings this whole time? I wasn't aware it was so special." She meant it sarcastically. Tom scowled at her, now descending down the stairs with her.

As they finally entered the hallways and were now walking to the Gryffindor Common Room, Tom looked down on her, glaring. "You need to watch you loose tongue, sometimes, Hermione, or else I may not be so lenient with you— _even_ if you are a girl."

At his insinuation of her gender, Hermione scowled and bristled, jaw setting. "And what, pray tell, will you do, if I don't?" She looked up at him. But that question in itself was a mistake as Tom's eyes hardened, but his his lips pulled up into a chilling grin, showing all the rows of his perfect straight white teeth as his magic seeped off of his being and bled into Hermione's form, spreading a cold chill into her body and making pin pricks appear across her skin. Her hair rose on end and the blood in her veins froze over in fear as Tom leaned into her ear, voice nothing but a whisper across her cheeks. _A threat._

"Oh, dear girl," he mocked, but his voice was far from amused. Hermione suddenly felt like she was stuck in the grip of a boa constrictor. She finally knew what danger it was to be like trapped in Tom Riddle's web. Or rather, his voice and his actions reminded her of it. "You'd want to hold your tongue before you'd want it to get to that. I'm afraid...it would be most... _undesirable_ to be under my... _anger_."

Hermione couldn't breathe, having Tom too close to her for comfort, and she was consciously aware of the magic that overwhelmed her presence and suffocated the air around her like a grip. She was trapped in the jaws of Tom Riddle, and his threat that he whispered to her ear seared itself into her brain immediately, circling and tying itself into an infinite chain that locked her mind. She couldn't think with his cold eyes boring holes into her own. She felt fear. It felt so long since she felt such a profound feeling, and she questioned where her Gryffindor courage went.

Hermione refused to tremble in his hold, but she nevertheless felt the fear that seared through her being. Unease or fear, it didn't matter. His threat was still present, and Hermione questioned how such a human looking boy could be possible of eliciting such a threat with his baritone voice. The words that came out of his mouth belonged to a monster. And his breath across her ears weren't supposed to be warm. It was supposed to be cold. To be monstrous. _But it wasn't_.

And his physical humanity unnerved her. But she had also killed a man before, so she _too_ was a monster.

After awhile, Tom pulled her out of her reverie to continue walking, and Hermione swallowed the lump in her throat, oddly staying silent. She couldn't say anything. She had _nothing_ to say. But one thing was clear. She had to be cautious around Riddle. His sudden changes in mood could be triggered with her own temper, and Hermione was afraid of what he was capable of doing.

This, so far, was the first ever glimpse into his real nature without a mask. And behind that mask, Riddle was dangerous.

But so was Hermione.

They were both equally dangerous, having full control of their magical cores that could be tangible enough to oppress magical presences. If they became strong enough, they could hurt people with it.

But Hermione was determined not to let Riddle hurt her first.

"Veritaserum," Tom spoke to the portrait of the Fat lady, who grumbled as she swung open, for it was already past midnight after all. Hermione sent a questioning gaze to Tom, silently asking how he knew the Gryffindor Common Room password.

In exchange, he smirked at her. "I have my ways," he elaborated vaguely, before switching back to his stone cold mask, which unnerved Hermione even more by the quick change. It was also getting quite tiring, but Hermione urged herself to get used to it. To the new, cruel side of him that appeared when provoked, unlike his perfect calm, collected, and polite perfect boy mask.

"But remember, little girl, that your defiance can only get you thus far, but it might not serve you well in the future. It would be such a waste if I had to resort to... _punishing_ you for your behaviour." He reminded her, and Hermione felt fear trickle into her being, but also anger at his clear disregard of her countenance. And his eyes— _he was lying._

 _The bastard so wanted to hurt her._

"Now off you go, little girl, and get some rest. I have some things I'd like to discuss with you by the morning. And here's a small task for you. Keep watch over _Andre Pula_." Tom ordered. But at this, Hermione rose her brows, taken by surprise with the sudden task he bestowed upon her.

"Why?" Hermione questioned. "What's wrong with Andre?"

At this, Tom glared at her, and it meant a clear sign to shut up. So she did, and Tom leaned in a bit forward, voice dropping down a few octaves. "I told you we will discuss things by _morning_ ," he reminded her with a sneer. "And do as I say, or else, Hermione. You keep watch over Andre Pula and stay away from him. That boy—he is hiding things, and I want to know them, little girl. Being in the same house as him, you can watch over him for me. Report every strange little thing he does to me, so I can find out. Keep track of his whereabouts and his schedule for the year. I will elaborate by morning. Good night, Hermione." He told her, and with a slight flourish of his robes, he turned around and left, robes billowing and bleeding into the darkness until he was swallowed by the shadows.

Questions swirled inside of Hermione's mind, even as her feet was anchored to the ground by the weight of the questions and her slight intimidation by Tom Riddle that made her stay rooted there, even as the portrait hole closed. She was confused, even made more so by the task given to her and his bipolar attitude.

Shaking her thoughts away, Hermione suddenly felt tired. Heading towards the stairs that rose up to the girl's dorms, Hermione rubbed her eyes, narrowly missing the outline of a person by the boy's dorms right across the girl's. Hermione looked up in alarm, senses forcing her hand to move to her wand in the holster of her arm in reflex. There, she looked at the person, and slightly, apprehension and dread began to creep in to her veins.

Tom Riddle's task to her was strange.

But seeing Andre Pula watching her—blinking and motionless above the stairs, watching her every move unsettled her. His hazel eyes pierced her being, and the usual warm and kind shine to them was replaced by a blank, shadowed look of scrutiny and cold observation. He nodded at her, but didn't move from his place. Hermione began questioning how long he had been there, or thought about how much of the conversation between her and Tom had he heard.

"Uh," Hermione began, unaware she made the sound until it echoed in the silent common room. She cringed, but reminded herself then that it was only the both of them within the common room, and that every other Gryffindor of all the other years had gone. Hermione cursed her luck internally, afraid then because of her thoughts going wild. What if he would hurt her? What if there was something Andre was hiding?

Clearing her throat, Hermione smiled at Andre, but it turned out into a grimace as she inclined her head to him. "G-good night, Andre. I'll be resting now." She squeaked out, and didn't mean to trip slightly on her long robes as she approached the girl's dorms.

Moving quickly, heart beating rapidly in chest, Hermione practically sprinted up the stairs and locked herself up in the 6th years' dorms. Her heart thundered across her chest, and Hermione became clouded with thoughts; befuddled by many things, though one thing was very clear.

And it tickled her gut; it was instinct.

It told her something was off and about to happen.

Briefly, she met the bed, and ceased her mind from torturing her once more with endless questions and lack of answers. Hermione, though, entered her dreams unwillingly, of a boy who briefly called her little girl, of Harry and Ron who sat by her side in the Hogwarts library, distant yet unresponsive, and of hazel eyes that ran after her as she chased after a set of robes that billowed out into darkness.

Morning came too fast for her liking.

...0O0O0O0O0O0...

 **Okay, so this chapter was really hard to write, and I had a lot of things going through my head. To me, Hermione was a bit OOC, and I didn't know how to go on about it. But I hope you guys would like it and give me some advice, and hopefully, in the future, I'll improve.**

 **Till next time!**


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